


Death is Our God

by queensusan



Series: Death is Our God [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Faceless Arya, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pregnant Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Winterfell, the hound and arya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7527412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queensusan/pseuds/queensusan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arya returns to Westeros, she stumbles upon Sandor Clegane and the two form a pact of revenge.  Along the way they find that some things are more important than revenge after all, and the continued survival of the Stark family may depend upon them.</p><p>Features a return to Winterfell, the reunion of long separated family members and something worth living for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of notes, hold tight, guys:
> 
> First of all, a warning. Because I would have been uncomfortable writing Arya any younger, I went with the age she looked in season 6, which was about 17 (verging on 18, if you're being generous). To make myself feel even better about this (I had to do some justifying, okay? I'm not cool at all with underage kids and adults getting together) I decided to mentally age Sandor down to his book age, which was mid 30s. Still pretty questionable, yeah, but it made it okay for me. But just to be clear: Arya is 17 when they begin their consensual relationship, which would not be underage by ASOIAF standards, so I haven't labeled it as such. 
> 
> Also, while you don't see the actual violence, you do see the aftermath of an attack and a raping (no main characters). It's not all that graphic (and frankly if you're into this fandom it's going to seem pretty damn tame) but I thought I'd warn for it anyway.
> 
> As another note, I have to admit I find this an intimidating fandom to write for because the canon is vast and I'm not even remotely familiar with all of it. I did the best I could, but I can almost guarantee there will geographical, religious, magical and character inaccuracies. There was quite a bit about the face changing aspect I didn't understand and I had to make up to suit the needs of my story, and other things I just plain made up. I hope it flows okay anyway and makes sense in this fandom. 
> 
> This is a WIP, but I have gotten a large part of it already written. Unless the Many Faced God comes for me before I manage to finish this, I promise this will be completed shortly. That said, no question about it, comments encourage me to write faster... ;D

By the time Walder Frey's blood had been warm on Arya's fingers and speckled on her face, she'd come to love killing so much it was like a sexual awakening to feel the life slip from his body.

“Killing is the sweetest thing there is,” Sandor Clegane had once told her.

“Death is our god,” she'd have replied to him, if he'd been alive to hear. 

**

Arya's tour of revenge, by necessity, was a changeable thing. She knew where she was destined- King's Landing- but the winter wind brought rumors of the Brotherhood Without Banners, and like one of the dried leaves of the dying summer, she was carried away by it. The Brotherhood, whispered Frey's court, had been making trouble in the Riverlands, cutting off supply lines and attacking Frey camps. She wasn't sure if Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr were still on her list, if she was honest with herself, but she was curious to see them and find out. 

Arya had not been trained in tacking and it took her longer to find the Brotherhood than she'd have liked. But they were showy, and they left a trail of dead in their wake and she lapped up their leavings, as eager as a bloodhound. She snaked past their sentries and lurked on the outskirts of their camp, watching. She kept her true form, on the assumption that if she were caught she would be recognized and not killed outright. Still, the successful infiltration of Frey's court had made her overconfident and she did not even hear the tread of footsteps coming up behind her as she crouched behind a tree and spied on the Brotherhood from a distance until she'd been grabbed from behind. 

She was wrenched back and a knife was at her throat before she even knew what was happening. She twisted and kicked her lower body like a wildcat, but the arm clenched tight around her breast was immovable and the knife was steady, giving her the impression the wielder didn't particularly mind if she cut her own throat or not. She stopped, breathing shallowly to keep the blade from cutting any deeper, wildly trying to imagine escape and to twist her fantasy into reality. She could kick her heel back, she thought, and try for his groin. It was a satisfying thing, to feel the soft impact of vulnerable flesh beneath her feet.

“Go on, kick me if you like,” a voice growled in her ear, as though her attacker could read her mind. “Won't hurt me as much as it will hurt you to have your head cut off.”

Arya froze, but from shock this time instead of fear. That voice rang through her memories like a struck bell. A thousand conflicting emotions bombarded her. “Hound?” she gasped reflexively, and the man behind her was obviously intrigued enough that he removed the knife and pushed her away roughly.

Arya stumbled forward against the tree, scraped her hand against the bark, and then spun around. She put her hand to the hilt of Needle, but didn't draw it. 

“You!” she said faintly, feeling things she hadn't know she was capable of anymore. The memory of hate was replaced, suddenly and shockingly, by fierce joy. She took a step forward. Her hand remained on Needle, but she didn't know if she wanted to cut him for pretending to be a man she knew to be dead, or to throw herself in his arms. Her emotions made her feel suddenly desperate. “You're dead. You died. How are you here?”

Sandor's blank face reflected his own astonishment, but her questions surprised a laugh from him like she'd never heard before. It wasn't the bitter, hateful laugh she would have recognized but rather a bewildered, vulnerable noise.

“Seven hells, it's the Stark girl. So often I wondered- I never thought you'd outlive the year. How could you? You were bloody useless.” His laughter made her feel strange, but his eyes were greedy as they ran over her. And then he was wary again, looking around. He grabbed her shoulder and marched her deeper into the woods, away from the camp.

Arya arched up into his touch like a cat, even though it was a hard touch and not a stroke. It reminded her how long it had been since anyone had touched her with anything less than malevolent intent. 

“I wasn't useless,” Arya argued as they stumbled along, saying the first thing to come to mind. She felt more like the Arya Stark her family would have recognized than she had in years, however, her heart fluttering with unexpected happiness. She stopped and launched herself at him, her arms wrapping tightly around his torso and her face crushed into his chest. He smelled none too sweet, but he felt good and solid. He was a little thin but not as ravaged with illness and emaciation as he'd been when she'd seen him last. Her soft cheek was crushed against his warmth and her fingers dug in to the muscles at his back “Are you real? Are you really alive?” she asked as Sandor allowed the embrace for only a moment before continuing to lead her away from the camp, dislodging her hold.

“Aye, after you left me to die a slow, gruesome death, you heartless cunt, I was found by a Septon who nursed me back from the grave.”

Arya's face fell. She couldn't blame herself for making the only decision she'd known to make, but she wondered how things might have been different if she'd stayed with him, or tried to find help. 

“I could barely take care of myself. I thought you were as good as dead, but I....” she shook her head, remembering the way she'd truly realized what he'd meant to her only as he lay dying. _My friend,_ she had thought at the time. _My only friend._ “I couldn't do it.”

Sandor's face flexed and he shot her an inscrutable sideways glance before his expression fell back into hard lines. “Was that it? I wondered... done a fucking lot of wondering the last couple of years. I wondered if that was your revenge.”

She shook her head and wanted to hug him again because it had been _so long_ since she'd had anyone who knew who she was and what it meant to be Arya Stark. But she wasn't able to put into words what he'd meant to her in her own head, and had even less chance of speaking them aloud, and so said nothing.

“Where have you been?” Sandor finally asked, his eyes darting over her as if looking for the marks of abuse he'd no doubt imagined her suffering the past two years.

Had he cared, she wondered? Or had she been just one more dead child he couldn't prevent, one more scrap of evidence of a world that was cruel and unfair?

“I went to Braavos,” she said, and noted with satisfaction the impressed lift of his one good eyebrow. “I trained with the House of Black and White to be a faceless assassin.”

Sandor snorted in disbelief, though he looked thoughtful. “Did you now? And what are you doing here, then?”

Arya smiled coldly. “I've come to cross names off my list.”

* 

It didn't take long for Arya to decide that she wanted Sandor to travel with her. She couldn't explain the fierce and possessive feelings that welled up inside her; she only knew that she wanted him to be _hers_. 

He didn't require extensive convincing. Arya thought that at heart Sandor wanted a master; that he longed for a leader to give purpose to his rage and death lust. Arya could give him that.

Even Arya could not deny, however, that while she'd grown in ferocity, Sandor had become more thoughtful and measured in his ways. He outright refused to kill Beric and Thoros, for the logical reason that he didn't see the point in it when once he'd have killed them simply because she asked.

“They sold my friend to a witch!” Arya hissed angrily as she paced before him. “They kidnapped me! They deserve to die,” she said, whipping Needle through the air, their deaths dancing before her eyes. “The Faceless God has been thwarted too many times.”

“You really apprenticed with the House of Black and White?” Sandor asked around a mouthful of the venison jerky she'd had in her pack. She shot him a somewhat fond glance. It brought back memories of their time together, when food had been so scarce that a man with such a large appetite might have been forgiven for selling her to the first buyer, or even lending her out in exchange for a loaf of bread. He hadn't though, and she hadn't forgotten.

“Valar Morghulis,” she said with a smirk, and then because she couldn't help the desire to impress him, she turned away and pulled out the face she wore always tucked into an inner pocket of her tunic, bringing it up until she could see through the gaping eye holes and summoning the magic of the Faceless God. When she turned back to him she bore the pretty, placid face of the serving girl who murdered Walder Frey's sons. The servant of Death, she called her favorite disguise.

Sandor stopped chewing and his mouth fell open. A hand dropped to the hilt of the axe he carried with him now in place of a sword.

It was an unnerving thing to see the first time, she knew. “I told you,” she said smugly.

“How do I know you're really Arya Stark?” he asked coldly, and she rolled her eyes at him. She continued to pace, stabbing and striking Needle through the air. It helped to calm her, to cool the feelings inside her that were like blood lust but were something different. “Tell me something only she would know.”

“The Cunt of Tarth was the one who overcame you, but only because Rorge had given you an infected wound on our way to the Vale and both of us were starving.”

Sandor eyed her narrowly. “There were witnesses to that-” 

“When I flowered and I asked you what I was supposed to do about my moon blood, you gave me a handful of moss and told me to shove it up my twat. You were a fucking awful substitute for a Septa, you know,” Arya overrode his suspicions cheerfully, grinning wickedly when Sandor's face contorted in disgust. 

“How do I know they don't take your memories when they steal your face?” he asked sulkily, but it seemed like a token protest now. His brown eyes were following her movements and she realized that he'd scarcely taken his eyes off her. 

Arya peeled the servant girl's face off and Sandor's face got the same look of fascinated disgust it sometimes had when he picked something particularly nasty from his teeth. She settled opposite Sandor, crouching on her heels among the roots of the tree he sat under and eyed his mutilated face. “I'm not really a faceless assassin. I couldn't do it. I couldn't be No One,” she confessed, because though their relationship had never been simple, it had always been honest- sometimes brutally so.

“You aren't no one,” Sandor said in confusion. “You're Arya Stark.”

Arya sighed in relief and nodded. “Exactly.”

They were silent for a while as Sandor worked his way through Arya's jerky. She couldn't seem to stop staring at him, as hungry for his face as she was for food or revenge. He'd known her family, she thought. He'd met them and talked to them and even if he had hadn't liked them, she craved the bond that their shared memories made between them. 

“I killed Meryn Trant,” she said, her voice husky with pleasure, placing her triumphs before him like a cat bringing a dead mouse to her master for praise. “He came to Braavos and I followed him to a brothel. He liked to beat and rape young girls, but I-” her eyes drifted close and she smiled at the memory. “I took the face of a little girl and went to the brothel. There were two other girls and he beat us because he liked to hear us cry. The other two girls gave him what he wanted and wept, but I kept silent until he grew frustrated and sent the other two away. That's when I took off my disguise and I stabbed him in the eye. My face was the last one he saw before he died...”

She drifted off in the memory for a moment before opening her eyes again. Sandor was looking at her with a wary but not disapproving look.

“Cunt got what was coming to him,” he said with a nod. “He always did like to hurt little girls.”

“He did, but the faceless men weren't happy. My sight was taken as punishment and I was made to earn my way back into their good graces. I had to prove that I could be No One, and when I was given a second chance I failed at that too. So they decided to kill me.” Her hand went to her still tender belly, rubbing through the cloth at the soreness that had never quite gone away. 

Sandor followed the path of her hands. “What did they do?”

Arya, unashamed, pushed up her tunic and pulled her loose Braavos style pantaloons over the curve of her hips to expose the raw, barely healed collection of welts on her abdomen. “Stabbed me in the belly. It might not have been so bad if I could have recovered in peace, but the cunt who tried to kill me came back to try again.” Months later, even with what little medical care she'd been able to find in Braavos, her insides still didn't feel quite right. 

“I killed the assassin they sent for me and I took the faces and came back to Westeros.” 

Sandor's eyes trailed over the bared skin and without thinking she pulled the tunic up to the plump underside or her breasts, as if to show him how much she'd grown. Sandor's gaze lingered for a moment before she let the fabric drop and pulled her trousers back up, feeling a little unsettled and unsure why she'd done that.

“What about you?” she asked, rolling forward from her crouch so she was near enough to touch his leg. He flinched back from her touch and made a warning sound, but did not kick her away.

“I want to see,” she said, and though he looked liked a dog waiting to rip her throat out at the slightest provocation, he allowed her to untuck his trouser hem from the incongruously fine boots he wore and pull the fabric up to uncover his hairy leg. A puffy pink scar marred the slightly uneven line of his leg where the bone had protruded, but it seemed to have healed well. She'd noticed his limp, but she knew he'd be just as deadly, no matter his lameness. Next she moved up his body, one hand planted on his thigh and the other going up to his neck to examine the ugly scar Rorge had left behind.

“Should have let me burn it,” she said, and it felt so oddly comforting to taunt him again that she ran her fingers over the skin more than was necessary. She could hear the sharp intake of his breath and smell the tang of garlic from the jerky on his breath. “You were burning with fever when that woman found us. She'd never have beat you otherwise,” she said loyally, but Sandor just shrugged stiffly, dislodging the stroking of her fingers.

“She was the most vicious bitch I ever met,” Sandor said, a hint of admiration in his voice until he noticed Arya glaring at him. There faces were close together. “Except for you, that is.”

Arya trailed a finger over the mangled ear Brienne had left him with and withdrew, crouching beside him again and giving them both a bit of space to breathe.

“We could find her and kill her,” she suggested, trying to make her offer seem as though it were all the same to her whether Sandor joined her or not.

Sandor's eyebrows shot up. “We?” he asked, clearly playing the same game of indifference she was. 

Arya rummaged in her pack so she wouldn't have to look at him and brought out a strip of the venison. “I have money,” she said through her mouthful. “I stole it in Braavos. I can feed us, if you come with me.”

Sandor deflected her question for the moment. “I thought you didn't like stealing.” 

Arya shrugged a shoulder. She'd abandoned most of her morals by that point, though being back in her homeland was bringing some of them back to her. She wondered what sort of person she would be if she ever made it back to Winterfell, where the memory of her father's nobility and her mother's love would haunt her every day? 

“They could afford to lose it,” she said, justifying the theft in her own mind.

“And what are your plans, wolf girl? Aside from killing the Brotherhood Without Banners, that is.” 

“I told you, I'm crossing names off my list.” Arya then told him in detail about the deaths of the Walders to prove how serious she was. Sandor was gratifyingly impressed.

“Fucking hell, girl. You're a brutal little cunt, aren't you?”

“Yes,” she agreed proudly, and they shared a smile that could only be understood by killers. 

“And what good would I do for you, then? If you want to go unnoticed then I'm a piss poor traveling companion. There's too many in these parts who know my face, and a thousand fucking more that know me the closer we'd get to King's Landing. There's still a price of my head- or there will be when it's found out I'm still alive.”

“I've thought of that,” Arya said, rising and brushing off the seat of her pantaloons and returning to her pack. It was a large pack and carried every valuable thing she owned in the world. It contained the faces she'd stolen from the House of Black and White and the ones she'd added to the collection during her travels. She hesitated for only a moment before pulling out the face of a man about Sandor's age.

“You've been a worshiper of the Many Faced God for as long as I've known you,” she said, as much to herself as Sandor, to convince herself that what she did was right, even if it was against every rule the faceless men had tried to teach her. And yet like any religion that she knew of, the House of Black and White was a cult of politics and mortal rules, and were not necessarily the mouthpiece of the Many Faced God. 

“Like hell I have!” he said, clearly outraged. “Fuck the gods!”

“That's the Stranger, to you. The Many Faced God goes by many names in many religions,” she said, unperturbed by his vehemence. 

She didn't know if what she hoped would work, really, anymore than she'd known the Many Faced God would let her continue to use his gifts once she left the House of Black and White. But she'd trusted that the Many Faced God knew her soul and knew she was a true apprentice of death.

Arya turned back to him, the face cradled in her hands. She stepped over the roots of the tree he sat beneath and then crouched to straddle his lap. It was almost sexual and it made Sandor lean back against the tree away from her.

“You said to me once that killing was the sweetest thing there was,” she said softly, looking at his lined and scarred face without flinching. “Death is our god.”

Sandor closed his eyes, his brow creased. “The Septon tried to teach me there were other ways,” he said hoarsely. “There are... good people, even in this gaping cunt of a country.”

Arya caressed the side of his face, her fingers trailing over his mutilated skin, a visceral reminder of the evil in this world. He'd probably have broken her wrist if she'd touched him two years ago, but now he just shuddered and pressed his lips together.

“What happened to this Septon?” She could tell from the wistful tone of his voice it hadn't been good.

Sandor's eyes opened. They were burning with the old hatred she recognized. “He was murdered.”

Arya's lips tilted up into a grim smile. “And what did you do to the man who murdered him?”

Sandor's lips mirrored her cruel smile. “I killed him. And stole his boots.”

That explained the expensive cut of the boots he wore compared to his peasant's tunic and trousers. Arya let out an appreciative bark of laughter. “There are people in this world who deserve death. Cersei. Jamie. Your brother. Melisandre. We could kill for the rest of our lives and still not stamp out the evil in Westeros. And I want you to help me.” 

And then, before he could protest, she brought the mask of flesh to Sandor's face and let the magic of the Many Faced God flow through her hands. It felt right, the way it did when she called on the gift to change her own appearance. The Many Faced God knew Sandor had paid tribute to him hundreds of times over; knew he had death in his heart.

Sandor's body did not altar noticeably, for that was not the way of the magic. He was a very large man, and could not become a small man no matter the form of the original face. But his skin smoothed out and his scars disappeared. His shoulders narrowed and his straggly brown hair shrunk back into his skull, becoming short and dark. The eyes, somehow still familiar, peered out from the face of a man Arya had never even met.

Arya scooted back off Sandor's lap as his large hands flew to his face, touching unmarred skin. He gaped at her, speechless for the first time in all the years she'd known him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note on sexual terminology:
> 
> euphemisms aren't sexy to me. If I'm writing a sex scene that's meant to be erotic, you aren't going to be find 'love nubs' or 'meat swords' here. (Oh lord, I can't believe I wrote those words, even in jest). Anyway, I know all of my language won't be period appropriate (I'm not sure the poor little clit was even named or acknowledged until well after the medieval age) but hopefully you'll suspend disbelief in favor of sexier smut.

Sandor hadn't wanted to kill the Brotherhood and Arya had compromised but placing them at the end of her list. As Sandor explained, they were attempting to do some good in the world, and her hate for others on her list made their own crimes seem small in comparison. There would always be others to kill, after all.

Sandor had nothing worth going back for in the Brotherhood's camp, so he shouldered his axe and they took to the road, both on foot. Out of the corner of her eye she often saw him touch his cheek, his long fingers tracing the smooth skin, as though unable to believe he truly no longer bore the face of Sandor Clegane. Arya wondered what it must be like, to be cursed with a face people had feared all his life and to suddenly be common and unremarkable. Would it be like becoming No One?

As they no longer had fear of discovery, they walked the main road and encountered little trouble, despite the evidence all around of the rising panic over winter. Winter, even under the best of circumstances, was a time of want and desperation in Westeros. During war the little people were pushed to the point of despair, as if everyone knew that their chances of survival were slim and there were no more societal rules to hold back their brutality.

Once they came to a wagon carrying the remains of a slaughtered family and they stopped to look. Their throats had been cut and the women and girls bore evidence of a brutal raping. One woman's skirts were tangled around her head and her thighs were rubbed raw and coated in blood.

Sandor pulled her skirts down over her legs and swatted the flies away from her eyes, his face stony and resigned, while Arya climbed into the wagon to examine the faces of the dead with clinical interest.

“Who's killing in the Riverlands these days?” she asked, turning the head of a middle aged man to the side, studying the sunken cheeks and missing teeth. He wasn't pretty, but he had the right sort of face if you wished to remain unremarkable.

“Who isn't?” Sandor returned bitterly. “Could have been anyone. What are you looking for, girl? Any gold they may have had- and pretty fucking unlikely, if you want my opinion- will be long gone.” 

Even with another man's face, it was a bit disconcerting that his expressions and mannerisms were still so distinctly the Hound's, she thought. 

Arya grasped the dead man's long white hair and used it to turn his head towards Sandor. “We need more faces for you. What do you think?”

Sandor considered the man with a curled lip. It was obvious he wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea yet and he shrugged noncommittally.

Arya rolled her eyes and pulled a sharp knife from her knee high boots. “He's dead, he won't care,” she said, and artfully sliced the skin from its moorings. There were potions she'd taken from the House of Black and White to cease the decomposition of the flesh that she'd apply when she had the chance, but for now she tucked the bloody morsel into her pack and shouldered it again. It was heavy and when Sandor silently hooked the pack off her shoulders and slung it over one of his own she reluctantly allowed it. It went against her nature, but she _wanted_ to trust Sandor. It was why she'd brought him, after all, because like the wolf he'd always called her, she longed for a pack.

Arya cast one last burning look at the thin and pitiful bodies. Their deaths would go unavenged, unremarked upon. The forest animals would find them soon enough, and when they'd been picked clean their bones would decompose and sink back into the ground and no one would remember them. So she took one last long look so she at least would not forget. It was the only thing she could do for them.

Arya pulled her cloak around her more tightly and hurried after Sandor, who'd gone up the road only a little way before he'd turned back to wait for her, his expression alert for danger. It was good to have a companion, she thought; good to have someone to watch her back while she took just a moment to remember she was still human and not yet fully wolf.

They stayed at a curiously vacant inn that night and feasted on roasted chicken. They paid a dear price for it, but with winter upon them Arya knew it would be one of their last opportunities to eat as much as they liked. Their hostess was a gaunt woman with hollow, shifty eyes. Arya had the sense, likely the one that Sandor had so long ago of the farmer and his daughter, that this woman would not survive the winter. She let herself feel the same detachment that the Hound had taught her, reminding herself it was all she was capable of, to care about her own survival and perhaps Sandor's.

Arya had stolen a small fortune in Braavos from a brothel owner who specialized in the sale and trade of children (and slit his throat while she was at it), but she saw no point in wasting their coin on a woman who was marked by death. They took a single room anyway, and when Arya paid for it she hoped it might be the difference between life and death for the innkeeper.

She'd also paid for hot water, though she let Sandor take the first mug of it. He went straight to the washbasin and peered into the clouded polished metal, examining the stranger's face he wore.

She wanted him, she realized. She felt a wild and impulsive desire to physically show him that he was not disgusting to _her._

Arya walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “I need to see your face,” she said and Sandor turned to give her that wary look that he always confronted softness with, as though no good had ever come of anyone touching him.

Arya put a hand to his face and reached through the cloud of magic, drawing away the disguise. It came away like a wisp of smoke at first and then solidified into a hunk of raw meat in her hand. She no longer found it disconcerting, but she saw the way Sandor watched it closely, as if it might turn and bite her fingers. She placed the shell on the edge of the washbasin.

Sandor looked ruefully back into the mirror, grimacing to see the charred flesh again.

“I don't care about that,” she said, addressing the tortured burn. “It isn't hideous.” One could grow used to anything, she supposed, and after finding Sandor again after so long believing him to be dead she found even that beautiful.

Sandor turned on her with defensive sneer, clearly believing her to be mocking, his oversensitivity a lifetime habit. 

“Don't,” she stymied the cruel words he'd have hurled at her had she given him the chance. “I'm no beauty either, I know. What good would beauty have done me? Just got me raped and killed all the quicker.”

Sandor's face clouded over in a rage, and Arya remembered how protective he'd been of her when she'd been his captive. At the time she'd thought it was because she'd fetch a higher price unsullied, and no doubt it had started that way, but she didn't think either of them had felt the same way by the end.

“I'm still a virgin,” she said, fighting back a betraying blush, but wanting him to know that he hadn't failed her, in one small thing, at least. “I know you're probably wondering. I'd have killed anyone who tried to rape me.”

“No more than they'd deserve,” Sandor huffed, his expression lifting a little.

“Yes,” she said with a small smile. Her stomach felt fluttery and she was tingling with excitement. “I almost wish they'd tried.”

There was only one bed in the room and neither mentioned anything of taking turns or sleeping on the floor. A bed was too much of a luxury to squander with false modesty and she wanted to feel him tonight. 

Arya let Sandor use the water basin first, turning her back to give him privacy. She sat on the rug before the meager fire in the hearth, trying to enjoy the comfort, knowing they'd find little enough of it in the coming months. She pulled the freshly carved face out of her pack and retrieved the bottle of potion, efficiently smoothing the precious liquid on the skin. She tried to think about what sort of man the face had belonged to, to honor his life in the only way she knew how, but she was distracted by the splashing of water and the rustling of fabric behind her. She was throbbing between her legs now and her heart was beating wildly. 

When Sandor walked across the room to pour his dirty wash water out of the window and then climb into the bed she turned around. He'd removed his boots but put his clothing back on and his eyes were resolutely closed. She'd seen him naked, of course. She'd traveled with him for over a year and she'd seen every side of Sandor there was to see, but it was remarkable how different it was now that she was older. Her sexuality had been a new and confusing thing then. Now it was no longer new, but just as confusing.

Arya stripped down to bare skin, folding and laying her clothing aside. Her precious boots with her fortune in gold coins carefully sewn into the lining, she set aside. She slept in them and only took them off to wash.

She cleaned her hair first, plunging the shoulder length strands into the water and scrubbing her scalp. The water, after rinsing her hair, was cloudy with filth but she did the best she could, scrubbing her wet rag under her arms and between her legs. A small spark of vanity made her wish to be as clean and presentable as possible, even if what she had to work with was meager.

When she'd dried her body with the cloths provided by the inn, she pulled her boots back on. She picked up her tunic and held it to her breast to calm her rapidly beating heart. She could stop, pretend she'd never even thought of Sandor; he'd leave her alone, she knew. His violent nature had never been sexually expressed, at least as far as she knew.

 _I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I take what I want,_ she reminded herself fiercely, and let the tunic drop. She held it before the knot of scarred flesh on her abdomen and walked softly to the bed, clothed in only her boots. 

Sandor had his eyes closed, but she could tell he wasn't asleep. She drew to his side and he cracked an eye open, looking startled by her nudity.

“Girl,” he growled in warning, but Arya did not heed him- as usual. She let the tunic drop and his eyes, as if acting without his permission, lingered on her breasts and then trailed down to the fluff of dark hair between her legs. The galaxy of red scars on her stomach wasn't pretty, but his gaze was dark and longing and it made Arya's whole body throb.

“What in seven hells do you think you're doing?” he asked, his voice hoarse and a little angry, as though he thought she was teasing him. “You aren't- how old are you, anyway?”

“I'm seventeen,” she said, and feeling as bold as a new coin, she crawled onto the bed, and knelt beside him. He didn't touch her, though his hands clenched by his sides, so she made the decision for him, taking one of his limp hands and placing it against her hip. His fingers flexed, digging into the softness of her skin. “I'm old enough to know what I want,” she whispered.

Sandor threw her an exasperated look. “Seventeen,” he sneered. “I'm twice that, girl. I'm old enough to be your father and every woman I've ever met has been disgusted by me. You don't have to offer yourself up like a roast chicken to keep me with you.”

Arya was playing with the hand at her hip, stroking the fingers and nudging it up, over her ribs so that he cupped one of her breasts. Her breast was small and his hand large but his warmth enveloped her perfectly and made her nipple erect and sensitive. Her breathing was a little rapid, nervous and excited.

“You think I'd do that?” she asked contemptuously. “I don't do anything I don't want to do. What difference does age make to me? We could die tomorrow, or the day after. And I'm not afraid of your face. I never was.”

Sandor was still giving her a murderous look, but his hand betrayed him. His thumb caressed the tight bud of her nipple and his fingers kneaded the small mound of flesh under them.

“I thought about it, even when I was still a girl,” she confessed, now drawing the hand down, over her ruined stomach and down between her legs. He didn't have to be lead further. His thick, long fingers delved between the lips of her sex and dragged through her wet flesh. He gasped audibly and Arya wondered if he'd ever been with a woman who wanted him, truly, or if he'd only ever known victims and prostitutes. 

“Slippery as an eel,” he muttered to himself.

“At night, when you thought I was asleep, I'd listen to you,” she murmured, her voice a little more high pitched and breathless. She rocked her hips against his finger, riding his knuckles as the skimmed over her clitoris. “You'd be on one side of the fire, your back to me, touching yourself and I'd listen to every bit of it, every sound you made, and I'd get so wet. I hated you but you.... you... if you'd come over any night I'd have let you fuck me.”

“I don't fuck little girls,” he said, as if by rote, a claim he'd made many times. And with a brother like his, he'd probably had reason to say it often enough.

“Yes, I know,” she gasped, doubling up over his hand and grinding down onto his fingers. It was why she allowed him to touch her now, because in her world that was what passed for honor and nobility. “I never stopped thinking about you,” she confessed, and then gave up any pretense of dignity. She fell forward, resting her weight on her hands and knees and shamelessly thrusted against his fingers. She could see the bulge of his erection beneath his trousers but she was focused on her own pleasure.

Two of his fingers jammed deep inside her cunt while he used his other hand to aggressively knead her breast. Arya moaned aloud at the sting of pain counterbalanced by the liquid throb of pleasure. It was like when she touched herself, only multiplied in intensity a thousandfold. 

Arya reached down to reposition his fingers, drawing his thumb up so it rested against her clit before settling her hand around his wrist, to keep him steady while she rode his hand, fucking herself on his fingers. It didn't take long for the sensation to peak. She held his wrist tightly enough to bruise and ground hard against the thumb on her clit and she was there, crying out with abandon. Her internal muscles clenched around the fingers inside her and distantly she heard Sandor growl before she was swept into his embrace. Her body sprawled across his before he was rolling her over onto her side and curling around her from behind.

She felt the thick length of his cock against her backside and thought he was going to take her then, but Sandor seemed to have his passion under control almost immediately. He held her tight to his chest and continued to trail his fingers through her sensitive sex. His chest heaved against her back and his nose was buried in her damp hair, breathing her in.

When her orgasm had ebbed and the movement of his fingers began to make her body coil up again with energy and desire, she turned her head to look back at him. He was watching her, his face conflicted. She thought he didn't look like he really believed what was happening, or that she truly wanted him.

“You ever licked a woman's cunt?” she asked, and almost laughed when his eyebrow shot up in surprise and then shook his head. 

“I've seen it,” he admitted.

Arya trailed her fingers up and down his arm and shifted her hips, urging him to continue stroking her. “I saw prostitutes do it to each other in Braavos. I want you to do that,” she said, remembering the way it had made her cheeks flush and her insides turn liquid the first time she'd stumbled upon such a scene. 

“Greedy cunt,” he grunted, but she could tell he wasn't really displeased, only cautious, not wanting to let himself believe what was happening. He made a show of acting reluctant before grudgingly agreeing to her request. “Turn over and put the pillow under your arse.”

Arya scrambled to comply, no longer shy about her nudity. She trembled with anticipation when Sandor knelt beside the bed and pulled her closer to the edge, parting her legs wide around his shoulders. The heels of her boots rested against his back, but she wouldn't take them off, even for this. And then his scratchy beard was tickling her thighs because he'd put his mouth on her.

Arya yelped and flailed until her hands found purchase on Sandor, one on his shoulder and one tangled in his hair.

Sandor shot her a hard look. “Pull my hair and I'll bite your cunt,” he warned, but it was hard to take him seriously when he dipped back down and began to lick her sex. His attention was random at first, showing his lack of experience with female anatomy. She imagined any relations he'd had with women had been bitter and resentful, they fearing him and he all too aware of it. 

“Sandor,” she pleaded, writhing and bucking up against his mouth and tongue, wanting it on the little nub of flesh where her sex parted. She used the hand in his hair to guide him, drawing him so that he tongued her clit. “There,” she said. “That bit right there, yes- lick me _right fucking there, oh gods, yes._ ” Her own fingers had never felt like this, and she hadn't _known_ it could be like this. “Yes, yes,” she panted.

She had no basis for comparison, but she could imagine no more blissful feeling in the world. His big, broad tongue lapped at her clit as he tried to give her what she wanted, his effort sincere if unpracticed. She thrashed under him, pressing her thighs around his ears until it hampered his movements and then releasing him again, only to reflexively clamp down again as the dogged strokes brought her slowly closer to climax. 

“Put your fingers-” she whimpered and Sandor obliged her, thrusting two thick fingers up her twat before she could finish the command. Arya gave a wail that made Sandor reach up and slap a hand to her mouth but she just panted heavily against his palm and then bit into his flesh when she felt the urge to scream again. 

Under the flicking of his tongue and the fucking of his fingers, every element of pleasure finally aligned and she was crying out against the hand on her mouth and rolling her hips up to meet his tongue as lightning seemed to strike her loins, even harder than the first time.

Sandor suckled her through it until she was trembling from over-sensitivity and pushing him away with one booted heel to his shoulder. His lips and chin were shiny with her juices and she shuddered at the sight.

“You're good at that,” she gasped, and it amused her to see that Sandor looked a little smug.

She almost thought he blushed, though he just looked down and lifted a shoulder in a shrug. His fingers were still in her cunt and her internal muscles were squeezing him rhythmically with the aftershocks of her orgasm. 

She thought he'd shed his clothes and take her then, but he only watched her, showing uncharacteristic patience. He really had changed, she thought. 

Her legs were still splayed around Sandor's shoulders and her cunt felt warm and eager already. She'd waited years for this. “Sandor, please...” 

He didn't move, only watched her hungrily. “Take off your clothes,” she commanded, as much to see if he'd do it or not. He stood, huge, and moved to shrug off his tunic. His chest was broad and his arms were thick. He was incredibly powerful, one of the largest and strongest men she'd ever seen. The loose trousers and under drawers dropped to the floor and Sandor's dark, engorged cock was exposed. It made her suck in a sharp breath, both wanting and intimidated. 

“Are you sure you want it?” he asked, a trace of bitterness coming back. Arya wondered if he'd been turned away before, even by whores. “I'm a big fucker. It will hurt.”

“I'm not afraid of pain,” she flashed back, the hint of challenge heating her blood up. And she wasn't afraid, either. It would hurt, but she knew there were different kinds of pain, and this would be the kind of pain that was worth it. 

“We can't have a baby, though,” she said, stating the obvious, and looking to him for guidance. No one wanted a baby in wintertime, least of all Arya. 

“I'll pull out,” he said, still a little angrily, clearly unsure even now that he was really wanted, or if he would be spurned at any moment. He kicked his trousers away and climbed over her on the bed, suddenly seeming not just big but enormous and the look in his eyes a little frightening. The hint of fear it inspired in her just made her want it all the more and she scrambled to the center of the mattress so they wouldn't overbalance the rickety piece of furniture. She spread her legs wide to accept the breadth of his hips and his weight made the muscles in her thighs scream in protest. 

“Kiss me first,” she gasped, suddenly needing it. Sandor grimaced, as if the thought of their faces so close made him uncomfortable (it probably did) but he obeyed.

 _My dog,_ she thought as Sandor bent himself in half so he could reach her face. After they'd exchanged a few mildly pleasant kisses Sandor drew back, looking hopeful it had been enough for her. Arya sighed, deciding they weren't really the kissing sort of people.

And then Sandor reached between them and guided the head of his cock to her cunt and began to nudge inside. 

Although Arya was very wet and fully aroused, it still hurt. He'd warned her it would and he hadn't been lying. Arya held rigidly still, every muscle in her body tightening as a sword was shoved up her quim. To his credit, he held still above her when he'd pushed as much of his length inside her as he could, either giving her time to adjust to the sensation or waiting for her to push him away from her, as if it were inevitable. When she said nothing to stop him he began to grimly draw back and thrust in again, pressing and releasing her body against the mattress. She watched his face as he gazed down between their bodies, where his cock plunged inside her.

Arya was finding the experience generally not as pleasing as she'd hoped it would be, when Sandor began to make noises- little grunts of effort and bitten off moans and it began to make Arya feel restless and warm again to hear him let go and feel pleasure. Her cunt began to feel slicker and Sandor's thrusts less dry. His cock was touching her everywhere inside where her own fingers couldn't reach, and beneath the burn there was an unmistakable flaring of excitement.

Arya brought one hand up to touch a nipple and slipped her fingers between their bodies to touch herself and then it was good, not just tolerable. Sandor's eyes flitted back up to her face and he seemed surprised to find her doing more than just enduring the experience. She looked back at him openly, not hiding her pleasure, and rolled her hips up to meet him.

“It's- not s-so bad,” she panted and then arched her back as the sliding of his cock struck places inside her that she hadn't know existed. Her fingers slipped lower, to feel the skin of his cock sliding into her. The folds of flesh around him felt swollen and fevered and would ache tomorrow but now it was doing things to her that she couldn't quite explain. She moved her fingers back up to her clit with purpose. 

“Don't stop,” she gasped, circling her fingers around her clit frantically and beginning to inexpertly roll her hips up to meet him. The pain had faded to a burn that couldn't mask the pleasure.

“Hurry, girl,” Sandor grunted, his hips speeding and the bed beginning to groan, his own lust obviously stoked by hers.

The climax was a little more elusive than her first two, but when it came it was powerful. She made a sound that Sandor later compared to a cat in heat and then Sandor was pulling out before her cunt had even stopped spasming around him and he was coming against her belly, his weight pressing painfully against her scars and anointing them with his seed.

Sandor held himself above her, his bulk braced on elbows and knees as they both caught their breath. With a groan he finally rolled off of her, coming to rest at her side.

They lay, shivering and silent, for a few long minutes. Arya's body was sore and exhausted and all she wanted was to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. She knew they should rouse themselves and decide who would take the first watch- even behind a locked door there was no security in this country- but she was so tired...

After a while Sandor, with a curse and cracking of joints, rolled out of the bed and retrieved the rag Arya had used to bathe with. He came back, wiping his flaccid cock as Arya watched, not sure what to think about the blood of her maidenhead smeared on Sandor's cock. He tossed the rag to her and she drug it through her tender sex, examining the red streaks, shrugging, and then more gently wiping his seed from her belly. She caressed her wounds, found none open, and relaxed back against the sheets.

“Will I bleed every time?” she asked as Sandor rolled back into the bed, pulling the blankets up over them and lying close to her, as the small size of the bed demanded.

Sandor grunted. “How should I know?” he asked, sounding as helpless and appalled as when she'd asked him what to do about her moon blood as a child.

“Have you fucked a maid before?”

He glared at her, as though she were being deliberately obtuse. “What maid would have me? I never fucked a woman I didn't pay for.”

“Except for me,” she pointed out and his face softened fractionally.

“Hmm,” he replied, as if it were too good a thing to be even acknowledged. As a concession he said, “It probably won't bleed every time. None of the whores ever bled.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, how many thousands of cocks had they had before you came along?”

Sandor snorted and pulled his axe closer to the side of the bed before rolling on to his side and putting a possessive arm around her. Beneath the sheets they were both still naked, except for her boots. 

“We should take turns keeping watch,” she said, though the temptation was so strong to just let her guard down for once. Just for a little bit...

“We should,” he agreed, and then they fell asleep, their beer soured breath brushing against each other's face.


	3. Chapter 3

They bought horses from masters eager to offload livestock they had no hope of feeding during winter and made better time to King's Landing. There were killings along the way, of course- men who coveted their horses, or what was between Arya's legs. They were men and women who were hungry and desperate and probably would have been good people, if they could have been, but Arya and Sandor killed them anyway. They brought satisfaction to Arya, as all killing did, but still she dreamed of Cersei's blood on her hands, or the Mountain's guts at her feet.

Sandor had been right; she hadn't bled every time they fucked, and after a couple of weeks it hadn't hurt at all either. She demanded him nightly, pushing his face down between her thighs by the flickering light of their campfire until she'd taught him exactly how to please her best and then grasping his hips with her legs as he plunged inside her afterwards. Sometimes when she felt a stirring during the day she'd climb into the saddle with Sandor and guide his hand down the front of her pantaloons and let him bring her off over and over as they traveled down desolate and deserted roads. She'd slip off afterwards, the memory of his cock against her arse and his unfulfilled grumblings making her grin. But he was patient with her, and obviously pleased by her eagerness. She thought that an eager lover was as much a novelty for Sandor as it was for her. 

Arya was amazed to discover, one night as she took first watch while Sandor snored softly by the fire, that she was as happy as she could remember being since she left Winterfell so long ago. 

And that made her afraid.

**

Sandor seemed to understand her reticence when they finally reached King's Landing. It was warmer here than it had been in the Riverlands, even though they were months further into winter, but they were both grateful for the thick winter clothing they'd picked up along the way.

The rumors of trouble in King's Landing were thick in the outlying towns. News of the death of the king and Cersei's final bid for power were not the only things spoken of in whispers in taverns and inns, either. Rumors of Jon and Sansa retaking Winterfell were spreading like wildfire too.

“We'll die in King's Landing,” Arya said with certainty the last night they would spend before arriving in Queen Cersei's city. For once she was not even in the mood to be touched and sat by Sandor's side, her breasts uncovered but her hands curled to herself in her lap. 

They'd purchased a sword and a suit of armor for him a month ago, using up a handful of her precious gold coins, but it had been necessary. In King's Landing he'd be fighting real soldiers, not desperate peasants and rapists. Sandor was polishing the hand guard he held in his lap and seemed contemplative.

“I thought you were ready to die,” he grunted, not looking up from his work. “Valar Morghulis, you always say.”

They'd had to spend a month in the town while the armorer had built a suit to Sandor's massive size and they'd spent the month fucking and drinking and riding the countryside on their horses. They established a reputation quickly for being people it was unwise to fuck with and they'd been left alone thereafter and it had been absolutely the most carefree time of Arya's adult life.

It still confused Sandor, but she'd taken to demanding he wear his own face when they fucked, and his scars gleamed in the firelight. Arya thought how strange it was that such an ugly face could be so dear to her. “I thought I was too. I thought I would die to kill Cersei. I know you'd die to kill your brother.”

Sandor looked up and didn't say anything. Her loyal dog, awaiting his orders. 

Arya was a killer. Her heart did not quail at the thought of tearing Cersei to shreds with her own teeth and nails. And yet when she came to Westeros her life had meant nothing to anyone but herself. She'd accepted it as a given that the end of her journey would be her death, and the only thing that mattered was that she killed everyone she needed to before she died. 

But having someone who knew who she was changed everything. Sandor changed her, and the knowledge that the surviving members of her family were out there alive somewhere changed her. 

“There's killing to be done in the North,” she said hesitantly, knowing he might go to King's Landing without her anyway. “Winterfell has to be held.” 

“Don't fucking pretend this is about anything other than your brother and your sister,” Sandor said, but he wasn't harsh. He went back to his polishing, avoiding her eye. “If I had any family that I didn't hate, I'd go back to them, if they needed me.”

“You would?” she asked quietly. “Would you go with me?”

Sandor didn't even look up from his polishing at her vulnerable tone, so unlike her usual self confidence and ruthlessness.

“Yes,” he said simply and Arya had to choke back a little sob of relief. 

** 

They bought heavier winter clothing and traded their mild Southern horses for the sturdier, more thickly furred breed who thrived in the brutal Northern winters. They were slower horses but had greater endurance and it was early winter yet. They made good progress on the road despite the steady stream of Northerners fleeing the deadly winter for a more temperate climate. Both Arya and Sandor could have told them they'd find little comfort in the war torn South, but as they could equally tell them that few would survive the harshness of winter in the North, they kept silent. 

Sandor grumbled about the cold, his family being from the West, and Arya passed the time teasing him about the fresh, bracing winter wind until it became a comfortable habit. In truth she was as afraid of the cold. She'd been born in spring, and had been a cosseted child kept near fires and rooms warmed by underground springs. Since then she'd spent half her life in King's Landing and Braavos and more than once she wondered why she hadn't taken Sandor back across the Narrow Sea and to the South instead, where it remained moderate even in winter.

And yet if the North remembered anything it had certainly not forgotten what blood ran in her veins. With every step they took nearer to Winterfell she felt the rightness of it, the fulfillment of her destiny.

When they were within a week's ride of Winterfell, Arya made Sandor take off the stranger's face and then took him into the woods on the side of the road one morning after they left the last inn they'd see before Wintertown. They guided their horses through the woods and Arya ignored Sandor's increasingly annoyed questions until she came to a tree that felt right. She slid off her horse and walked up to the large, aged tree. Branches hung heavily towards the ground, thick enough not to have snapped under the weight of winter snows. 

“What are we doing here, Arya?” Sandor asked, his lack of patience making his voice. He climbed off of his horse and stood there, tall and imposing.

“It's not a heart tree and this isn't a godswood but it's the best we can do. We can't wait until we get to Winterfell,” she said all in a rush, chafing her hands together and looking anywhere but at Sandor, just to give herself something to do.

“Arya,” Sandor growled and Arya whipped around, her eyes fierce. She put her hands on Sandor's mail clad arms and looked up at him, even though she had to crane her head very far back to see his face.

“If I go back to Winterfell with you I cannot say what will happen. We certainly will not be allowed to continue on as we are. At best you'll be allowed to fight in Jon's army and I'll be bundled away to some fucking dungeon for my protection, and at worst you'll be killed as a possible spy and I'll be married off to whichever family Jon and Sansa need an alliance with. I can't let that happen, do you see? But if we arrive at Winterfell already bound together, they must take us as we are.”

“Married,” Sandor repeated, his eyes narrowed. “Have you lost what little wits you had, girl?” When Arya only lifted her eyebrows he shoved her off angrily, his old defensiveness coming back with force. “Why would you want to tie yourself to me for the rest of your very likely short life? A hideous old man- that cunt sister of yours would never even believe that you hadn't been forced into it, though I'd believe that Jon is imbecile enough to fall for anything.”

Arya reached out and grabbed his arm again, putting all her strength into pulling him back to her. If she'd been tall enough she'd have hit him and as it was her hand itched for her knife, to give him a new scar for his face. Sandor watched her narrowly, knowing her nature enough to know what she was capable of. 

“That's my brother and sister you're speaking of,” she snarled and the tension was thick between them. It held, easing only be increments as they studied each other's faces, judging sincerity and intention. 

“I would kill anyone else who tried to touch me,” she whispered coldly and Sandor's shoulders slumped a little as the tension released from them.

“It won't be legal, you know,” he said. “No Septon, no papers. You can't just piss on a tree and call yourself married.”

Arya let him go with a little shove towards the tree. “We aren't pissing on it. We're kneeling. The Many Faced God will see us. And it doesn't matter if it's legal or not, they can't sell me to some lord with my cunt already worn out from your cock.” 

Arya knew that Sandor was not as convinced of the Many Faced God's existence as she was, but he humored her.

Sandor gave a grunt of discomfort when he knelt beside her in front of the tree, his bones and armor creaking. She knew the cold hurt his broken leg and she was sorry for it. She hoped Maester Luwin might somehow still be alive to help him, but she doubted it.

Arya took Sandor's hand and opened her mouth to speak- and realized that she didn't know what to say. “What do you say at a wedding?” she asked and Sandor groaned and rolled his eyes. 

“What a fucking farce,” he sighed. He took a deep breath. “As I'm constantly reminded, all men must die, but I ask the Many Faced God to give me life enough to protect Arya Stark for as long as she needs me.” It was heartbreakingly sincere and the most poignant thing she'd ever heard Sandor say. It made her cold heart glow a little. 

It was clearly too somber a moment for Sandor because he interrupted the silence following his words. “She's an insane cunt, and she needs a lot of protection, so I suppose I'd better be her husband since no one else would be fucking stupid enough to take on the job.”

Arya sighed and tried to hang onto her disapproving frown and failed. “Valar Morghulis,” she said through her smirk. “But not today. May we both live as long as we have enemies to kill and may my husband die by no hand but my own. That is the blessing I ask for our marriage.”

And then, halfheartedly completing the ceremony according to the customs he was familiar with, Sandor picked up the edge of his cloak and draped it over Arya's shoulders, muttering something about taking her under his protection, to which she snorted.

There was no one to call it official so they got back to their feet, brushing snow and dampness off their clothing. “We should consummate it,” Arya suggested hopefully but wasn't too disappointed when Sandor shot the cold, wet ground a disdainful look. 

“Not if you want me limber enough to get back on that horse."

As they walked back towards the horses Arya slipped her arm around Sandor's armored forearm and leaned against him for a moment, looking up at his scarred face. “I don't care if that wasn't legal. I meant it,” she said, and because they were both uncomfortable at the display of affection, Arya stepped forward more quickly so she could reach the horses first. She climbed up onto Sandor's horse and looked back at him, waiting for his warmth and his touch.

**

There were no more inns between the wood and Winterfell. They rode on, beginning to see signs of Winterfell's new occupation. They hadn't been confronted yet, but they knew it was a matter of time. They took shifts while they slept huddled around a campfire, keeping watch. Arya hadn't been able to decide if it was safer to keep her face or to wear a disguise. On the one hand her name could guarantee safe passage through the North. On the other hand, her face could also attract Winterfell's enemies and she could be taken captive and held hostage. 

In the end they decided to go as themselves and trust that the Many Faced God was not done with them yet. Or rather, Arya trusted that her fate was not to die on the side of the rode a mere days ride from her home and Sandor trusted his sword to protect her.

Regardless, they were apprehended by a couple of sentries wearing Winterfell insignia two days ride from Wintertown. When Arya had explained who she was they hadn't believed her. They'd continued to go on disbelieving her until Sandor had pulled out the great sword he wore on one hip and the axe he wore on the other, at which point they decided to giver her the benefit of the doubt.

Arya and Sandor were escorted to the castle and as they drew nearer they were joined by more soldiers, more than even Sandor could hope to deal with alone. They were stripped of their weapons and her pack, to Arya's fury, and granted the possibility of an audience with Jon. The soldiers shot Arya startled, suspicious looks when they discovered her collection of preserved faces, and thenceforth spoke to her and Sandor as little as possible, though she overheard the whispered invective of 'witch,' or 'sorceress' cast her way.

“They call Jon the King in the North,” Arya told Sandor with pride, for she'd listened keenly to not only their speculation as to her nature but also any gossip she could gather about her family. It filled her with a grief she didn't know how to put a name to, knowing all her brothers save one were dead, but she'd had time to get used to the idea. She did not know why or when Jon had left Castle Black and returned to Winterfell, but it was a relief to her that he'd been able to take the position as leader of the North that she personally felt he deserved.

“No good has come to any Warden of the North in the last few years, girl,” Sandor reminded her, but not cruelly, as though he wished to prevent her from hurt rather than cause it.

They walked together behind their horses, having been ordered off their mounts when they reached Wintertown, in case they tried to escape and cause mischief, she supposed. Their hands had been tied together behind their backs and she wished she could touch some part of Sandor, to draw whatever comfort she could from him. 

Sandor wasn't happy about their captor's arrangement, and made no secret of showing it, but Arya knew it would be set right as soon as she was home. She wasn't even angry with the soldiers- she was glad they were protecting Winterfell and would have no harsh words for them- provided they returned her pack to her, at any rate. 

When Winterfell finally came into sight Arya fell against Sandor in what might have been a swoon in a weaker woman. She groaned wordlessly, a long monotonous sound of relief and grief and dread. 

She could feel Sandor trying to break free of his bonds so that he could get to her before finding them too tight, as he had before. “Girl?” he asked gruffly as Arya just stood, stunned, staring at Winterfell like a starving man staring at a feast.

“The last time I was here my entire family was alive,” she said through her teeth. She felt lightheaded with the enormity of it, and of everything she'd been through.

The guards were looking uneasy now, starting to believe Arya's story and unsure of the trouble they would be in for bringing King Jon his youngest sister tied up in ropes.

“Just take me,” she said hoarsely. “Bring me to my brother and sister and I will not say one word against you.”

The leader, looking a bit pink cheeked and unhappy, looked between Arya's white face and Sandor's furious one. 

“Y-yes, m'lady,” he said, and then gestured for the other soldiers to get down from their horses and walk with the prisoners, lest their King see his sentries ride while his sister walked.

The courtyard was full of people Arya did not recognize and it was changed, terribly. It bore the signs of a brutal battle not yet mended. She looked around, desperate for someone she knew, but the only people who met her eyes were strangers. A stench hung in the air, of old blood and rotted meat and when they walked into the castle it felt like walking into the underground crypt.

A small sob was torn from her throat and she was too overcome by emotion to even be ashamed. She felt Sandor crowd up behind her, just letting her know he was there, his body warm and solid against her back.

“That's the corridor that leads to the kitchen,” she said as they passed through a stone hall leading to the banquet room. “Bran and I used to raid it and steal jam tarts. And Gods, this hasn't changed. There's still something the same,” she whispered as they walked through the unchanging stone corridors.

They arrived during the evening meal. The Great Hall was crowded with men, Winterfell soldiers and men that look wild and foreign to Arya. There were Lords too, for she'd never lost her ability to spot the self possession and superiority of a man who knows he was born to be greater than others.

Jon saw her first. He was deep in discussion with a man Arya did not recognize, sitting in the seat her father once sat in, when the movement at the entrance distracted him. He looked across the hall and his eyes met hers and held. 

She thought for a moment that he wouldn't recognize her, that he'd think she was just a phantom from his past or just a girl who resembled the sister he had so long ago. But then his eyes widened and he stood so abruptly that the great, heavy chair he sat in clattered behind him. 

“Jon,” Arya mouthed, too overwrought to speak, and then Jon was moving, climbing up onto the table and then over it as though it were no more then a stepping stool. All around them people were falling silent, startled by Jon's unexpected energy. Jon walked first and then he ran, pushing his way past Lords and soldiers and wild men alike until he was upon her and he was cupping her face in his hands.

“Arya,” he whispered, his voice broken and feeble and his eyes wildly searching her face. “Can it really be you?”

“Oh, Jon,” Arya sobbed and the last fragments of a heart she'd thought permanently frozen melted completely. Jon caught her up in his arms and hugged her so fiercely that Sandor growled a warning that was ignored by both of them. And then Sansa collided with them both, her hands reaching for any part of Arya not covered by Jon.

Sansa was sobbing and did not stop until she looked beyond her sister's dirty brown head. Arya felt Sansa fall back and heard her harsh gasp of shock. When Arya looked to her sister she saw Brienne of Tarth standing behind her, her lips set in an uncertain line and one hand on the pommel of her sword. Arya's hackles instantly rose.

“You!” Sansa cried, having made as unpleasant as discovery in Sandor as Arya had in Brienne. “Jon, that's the Hound! He was a Lannister man from King's Landing,” she said, her manners lost in her shock, even though Sansa knew very well that Jon was aware of who Sandor Clegane was. 

“No,” Arya said sharply as Jon pulled back and gave Sandor a wary look. Arya shot Brienne and Sansa a fierce glare, one that promised dark things.

Arya glanced back up at Sandor and their eyes met. “He's a Stark man, now,” she said and Sandor's one good eyebrow rose- though he didn't contradict her. He was her dog and they both knew it.

“He's my husband,” she said firmly, and Brienne's startled gaze finally met hers. Arya stared at her menacingly, challenging her to try and hurt him again. Brienne would have to go through Arya first, and she wouldn't find her as helpless a girl as she'd once been.

“We'd both like our weapons back and our bonds cut. And my pack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope no one was hoping too hard they would go to King's Landing. My original plan was to take them there, but as I wrote I decided that it would be more interesting if they skipped King's Landing and went straight to Winterfell. I felt that Daenerys needed the chance to kick some tail in King's Landing and if Cersei was dead it would be too easy for her.


	4. Chapter 4

Both Jon and Sansa insisted on her story while Brienne lurked in the background, staring suspiciously at Sandor and then searchingly at Arya, but Arya was not ready to tell them what had happened to her and perhaps never would be. Sandor, for his part, plowed through the food that had been brought up to them and largely remained silent, letting Arya navigate the choppy waters of familial relations. 

Their frustration with her was obvious, but what could they do? They could not force her to speak, particularly in the presence of a husband they could not predict, trust or understand, and were forced to accept the few words of explanation Arya was willing to give them.

At last Jon and Sansa staged a strategic retreat and told her their own tales- or the versions they chose to share, at any rate. A few times Arya gasped and once she jumped to her feet, a hand flying out to clutch Sandor's arm when Jon told her of being killed and brought back to life by the red priestess, Melisandre.

“I've seen that done before,” Arya whispered. “A man Sandor killed was brought back from death by a red priest. And I know that witch. Is she here?” she asked, looking around as though Melisandre might be hiding behind the curtains. The knife in her boot was calling to her, singing a siren song to her hand to stab and cut and avenge.

“I sent her away for burning Stannis Baratheon's daughter at the stake,” Jon said, his tone cold.

Arya choked on her gasp, this time both hands flying to Sandor. “Do you think she did that to Gendry?” she asked. “Burned him?”

Sandor didn't wrap an arm around her and comfort her, but he didn't shake her hands off him, which amounted to the same thing to Arya. “Why would she pay that much money for a boy she intended to burn to death? Seems a waste of coin to me,” Sandor said gruffly. 

Arya was relieved by his words, and looked back to her siblings. She found Sansa's eyes on Sandor's arm, where Arya clutched it. Sansa looked so confused and horrified, the fucking fool, as if no woman could find Sandor anything other than repulsive. Defiantly Arya backed up against Sandor and perched on his knee, which he allowed with an aggrieved sigh, though he put a casual arm around her waist to keep her steady. Arya saw Brienne's hand twitch and clench, as if even now she felt it her duty to separate them.

Jon glanced uncomfortably at the arm around his sister and then back up at Sandor's face, as if he found them as shocking as Sansa had. Arya could tell they were uncomfortable with their sister's relationship, but what could they do? They couldn't prove they were unmarried and even if they could, they'd only be proving their sister was of low moral fiber.

Arya had had enough. She was curious to know what had happened to her siblings in the years since she'd seen them last, but she was also overwhelmed and overwrought with too much information and too many emotions. “I'm tired,” she said, standing up from Sandor's lap. “We've been on the road for months and I just want to sleep in my own bed again. Can we speak tomorrow?”

“Oh, of course,” Sansa said, rising to her feet. She looked quickly between Arya and Sandor, her face stiffly impassive. “Your own bed... You want your old room? Or would you prefer separate rooms. Only, your bed is very small...” she said, pointedly not looking at Sandor's great bulk.

Arya huffed a laugh, unkindly amused at her sister being forced to confront something she obviously was not happy about. “I didn't think. Of course we'll want a different room with a bed big enough for both of us.”

Sansa bobbed her head and left the room to make the arrangements, stepping neatly into the role of lady of Winterfell. Brienne followed but paused at the door, looking back at Arya, conflict evident in her face.

Arya glared at her fiercely, but Sandor put a repressive hand to her collarbone to hold her back, as though realizing even the smallest provocation would spark an explosion in her. She trembled under his hand, fury rising up inside her at the thought that Brienne believed that now, _even now_ she could interfere in Arya's life.

“Are we going to have a problem?” Sandor asked Brienne, his tone calm but forbidding.

Brienne's lips flattened and her shoulders drew back. She lifted her head proudly, not backing down from any challenge. Jon looked back and forth between them, tensing as he considered whether he was going to have to break up a fight between two warriors larger than he was.

“Provided you treat the Lady Arya with the kindness and respect she deserves, we will have no problems,” she said with dignity, looking him in the eye.

Sandor stroked Arya's collarbone, soothing the beast inside of her. “We won't have any problems,” he confirmed and Arya was startled from her fury by the hint of warmth in his tone. She looked up at him and saw the way Jon's shoulders relaxed out of the corner of her eye.

Brienne nodded gravely and turned to follow Sansa, who'd stopped to watch the exchange with fascination.

**

The large, magnificent rooms that had been used by the family were occupied by visiting lords, but Sansa had found a temporary room in the Guest House that made up for its lack of size by having a huge, steaming tub full of water already waiting for them. It was doubtless Sansa's tactful way of telling them they smelled like horse manure, but Arya was beyond caring.

“Gods be praised,” she moaned, and hastily tossed her pack in the corner so her fingers could fly for the buttons of her tunic before Sansa had even closed the door behind them. Sandor was likewise shedding his clothing and they locked eyes in challenge. When it became apparent neither was going to back down they compromised, Sandor lowering his huge frame into the mercifully gigantic tub and Arya climbing in after him to settle on his thighs.

“Fucking hell,” Sandor groaned as the almost too-hot water embraced them. 

It felt so delicious it was almost sensual. Arya hadn't had a real bath in _months_ and she guessed it had been even longer for Sandor. 

Arya, knowing how fast water could cool in the North, fished the wash rags and soap out of the water and began to vigorously rub herself with it until her skin turned pink. She scrubbed her scalp and then she stood so she could wash between her legs. 

Sandor, who hadn't moved beyond cracking an eye open to watch her, now reached up and touched her thigh while she scrubbed herself. “I'd wager your cunt tastes sweet when it's clean,” he murmured, and despite the unbearably heightened emotions of the day, Arya responded as she always did.

“My cunt is always sweet,” she said tartly, then hissed when his big hand came up and slapped her sharply on the curve of her buttock.

“You'd better watch that hand if you don't want to lose it,” she threatened, with no heat whatsoever. Arya dipped back into the water, rinsed the suds off of herself and then climbed out of the tub.

“Nothing's worse than a cold bath,” she warned him as she went to sprawl by the fire to dry off in the radiated heat, in the way she and Sansa had as children. Sandor just grunted and settled his head back against the edge of the tub.

After a while she came back and found her husband had fallen into a doze, his breath heavy and his throat exposed and vulnerable. She knew if she touched him now he might break her arm before realizing who she was so she stood back a little and called his name. He awoke with a jerk, making the water splash over the sides, before he gained his bearings.

“Girl,” he growled, rubbing his eyes and looking up at where she peered down at him. She was still nude and she saw the way his eyes focused on her breasts instead of her face.

“You'll regret it if you let the water get cold,” she said, and teased him by reaching over his head to grab the soap, bringing her breasts to his eye level. The water was lukewarm and she tutted. “I want you clean so you can get out of that tub and fuck me,” she said, because it had been weeks since either had been warm enough to do more than hastily use their hands to bring each other off.

Thinking of his cock inside her, she took the soap and began to lather it into his hair to speed his progress. He flinched initially when her fingers brushed over his scars, but she'd done it often enough that though he remained tense, he didn't snarl at her. She scrubbed his scalp mercilessly and scoured the rest of his skin, putting her muscle behind it while he grunted with pleasure. Soon she'd cleaned his torso and she was slipping her hand under the water. She found his long, erect cock waiting for her and she smiled as she wrapped the cloth around the length of him and stroked. “I want a nice clean cock for my nice clean twat,” she whispered in his ear and enjoyed the way he shivered.

When his hips began to shift beneath her touch she abruptly dropped the cloth and stepped back from the tub. He shot her a dark look and she grinned and practically danced over to the bed. “Hurry up then,” she said as she climbed up into the tall, voluptuous bed.

It was the biggest bed she'd ever slept in- big enough even for Sandor. She kept her back to him and then leaned down onto her knees and shoulders, pushing her hips up into the air like an animal in heat. She reached between her legs and began to swirl her fingers through the folds of her flesh and then jammed her woefully short fingers into her cunt. She could only imagine the picture she must present for him and the thought of his eyes on her filled with a terrible hunger.

The splashing in the tub and his muttered curses were all she could hear of Sandor for a couple of breathless minutes and then he was out and striding towards her. He was rough when he grabbed her hips and pulled her knees to the edge of the bed. With one wet hand on her back he pushed her down until she was the height he needed and then he was slamming inside her from behind, making her scream and clutch at the blankets. Had she not been so aroused he would have hurt her, for it had been weeks since she'd taken his big cock into her body. But the burn was sweet to her. She arched into it and mewled like a kitten and he plowed brutally into her, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to keep her from sliding forward on the bed and away from him.

Arya buried her fingers in her sex, working fiercely at her clit while Sandor fucked her from behind and she was off like wildfire, coming and clenching down on the fat cock that split her open. And as soon as she'd come down from the high of her first orgasm she was working on her second and then her third, each hitting her in rapid succession. When Sandor finally pulled out abruptly and jerked himself to completion on her back, she was limp and exhausted with sated pleasure.

“Lick it up,” she said coyly over her shoulder and Sandor's eyes smoldered at the challenge. He leaned over her back, his skin still glistening from his bath, and licked up his own spend, his large tongue lapping at the lightly furred skin of her lower back and between the cheeks of her arse, against her hole and then lower, at the raw, wet folds of her well used cunt. And then, to her delight, he flipped her over and dove between her legs, licking and suckling her clit as she'd taught him, until she was curled over his head and cursing out her fourth release of the night.

Weakly, they crawled up into the bed and fell against the pillows afterwards. Arya looked over at him fondly, still a little amazed that he'd eaten his own seed at her command. “Dog,” she purred and meant _I love you_.

“Bitch,” he shot back, and perhaps he meant the same thing.


	5. Chapter 5

Arya followed Sansa the next day after watching her make that familiar path up to the heart tree, where they'd so often gone as girls. Sandor, not trusting that Arya was safe even at Winterfell, followed along behind her, but stopped a respectable distance away to stand with Brienne, Sansa's devoted guard.

Arya gave Brienne a hard look before leaving them, though she sensed no more hostility between the two, but rather a grudging respect. 

“I'll cut your hands off if you touch him,” she said, and then walked off before Brienne could formulate a reply while Sandor laughed more heartily than Arya thought she'd ever heard him. Her own lips quirked up into a little smile of amusement until she grew close enough to see the mournful, deadened expression on Sansa's face.

Sansa spoke without turning her eyes from the tree.

“My first marriage was in a Sept and my second marriage was before this heart tree,” she said softly, looking up at the gnarled face of the tree and not at Arya.

Arya stepped around her so she could see her face more clearly and Sansa slid her lovely eyes over to Arya. She was very pale.

“The Imp,” Arya said dangerously. She knew Sansa's second husband was dead, killed by his own hounds, but as far as she knew the dwarf still lived. Another name to add to her list?

Hearing her venomous tone Sansa shook her head. “He wasn't like his family. He was kind to me. When he knew I- I would not welcome his touch he left me alone and promised to wait until I was ready.” Sansa exhaled slowly. “I didn't really realize how kind he was, until it was over. I am glad he escaped. He didn't murder Joffrey... though I'd have liked him better if he had, of course.”

Arya's brows lifted and she looked at the heart tree, absorbing this new information.

“It was Ramsay Bolton who raped me,” she said, and Arya's head whipped around at Sansa's boldness. It was unlike her to speak so plainly and it shocked Arya more than her confession. She'd surmised as much, after all.

“He raped and beat me repeatedly, brutally, and made Theon Greyjoy watch.” Sansa still watched the Weirwood tree, her face blank.

“If he was still alive,” Arya said, her fist clenched at her side. “I would cut off his prick and make him eat it.”

Sansa finally looked at her with a mild smile. “Thank you, Arya,” she said, and it was a bizarre thing. “I say this because I must know, Arya. Jon and I, we must know.” Sansa turned, glanced back at Sandor, and then lowered her voice. “You do not have to tell us why you married Sandor or the circumstances, but is it what you truly wish? If he has forced you, we will not allow him to hurt you. He will not be suffered to live.” Sansa was working herself into a protective fury now and Arya stepped directly in front of her so that she must look her in the eye.

“It isn't like that,” Arya said firmly. “He wouldn't touch me if I didn't want it- insist on it, even. He was my choice- you could say I made him marry me.”

Sansa lifted her eyebrows at the thought. “You _made_ the Hound marry you?”

Arya smirked, appreciating the skeptical humor. “He does generally do what I tell him to do,” Arya admitted. Of the two, hers was the stronger will. Her smile faded. “I do not want for you to worry, or be afraid of Sandor,” she said firmly. “His touch is pleasing to me,” she said, the words sticking in her throat a little. She felt like walking around for a bit and killing something, to get the sweetness out of her mouth.

She sensed Sansa needed to hear it, though. 

“You love him,” she said wonderingly and Arya looked over at her sharply, though she didn't contradict her sister. “Well then, I will try to be happy for you. He- he was not cruel to me, in King's Landing, you know. He tried to protect me, in his way. But he was very... abrasive and he frightened me. I wonder now... He offered to take me to Winterfell, when he left.”

“He would have,” Arya said firmly, and then amended, remembering how much of a failure he'd been as a ransomer. “He would have tried, anyway. He tried to sell me to Robb and then to Lysa, but by then they were both dead. He kept me safe as long as he could.” Until Brienne of Tarth had come and ruined everything, anyway. 

Arya had been so reticent about what had happened to her after leaving King's Landing that Arya could tell Sansa was keenly interested, though she tried to look composed.

“It's a long story,” she said, feeling heavy and tired with her history. “I traveled with him for about a year, where he tried to ransom me off to a relative. We were separated and I believed him dead so I traveled to Braavos-”

“Braavos!” Sansa said in surprise and then seemed to mentally castigate herself for interrupting Arya's rare honesty. She looked penitent and nodded at Arya to continue.

“Braavos,” Arya said with a firm nod. “I spent a couple of years in Braavos and then came back to Westeros, where I found him again. I proposed that he accompany me to-” Arya cut herself off, having come too close to revealing something she did not wish Sansa to know. “To Winterfell,” she said stiffly, to cover her blunder, “and he agreed.”

Arya could tell that Sansa was calculating the truth of this tale and finding it wanting, but she was also wise enough to save her questions for another time.

“Well, that was fortunate,” she said a little uncomfortably, and then more genuinely, “he's very different from how he used to be. I suppose he's more content now. I know he hated Joffrey.”

Arya nodded vigorously, as she considered his loathing of Joffrey to be one of Sandor's finer qualities. 

She cast an eye back at the two bodyguards and found them speaking in what appeared to be an amicable fashion and once again failed to understand the respect Sandor seemed to have for the Tarth woman. The man admired strong women, there was no getting around that. 

“And Brienne?” she asked, trying to understand how Sansa had ended up with such a fierce guard dog.

Sansa looked over at Brienne, her cold expression softening into something much more tender. “She found me, before my marriage to Ramsay, and offered her protection.” Sansa was silent for a long time. “I did not trust her, of course, just as you did not, and I refused her help. But when I needed her, after I escaped Ramsay, she saved me. I know you do not trust her, Arya, but I would be dead if it was not for her. Even if my death had to come from my own hand.”

Arya's chest swelled with that old, familiar hatred. If she could raise Ramsay back from the dead she would and kill him over and over and then piss on the tiny mutilated scraps she would leave behind.

“Well, I suppose she was doing what she thought was best,” she finally conceded ungraciously. “It's not like the Hound looks particularly trustworthy.”

Sansa and Arya exchanged small smiles, as close to being in accord as they ever had.


	6. Chapter 6

Arya was watching Sandor spar with a red headed Wildling and smiling broadly at how well Sandor could still fight, despite his injuries, when Jon came up beside her, his heavy fur cloak making only the softest whisper of noise. 

She stood back from the railing of the balcony over the training yard and looked at him critically. He was worn and looked much older than his years. His face, always solemn, was almost haggard now. She wondered if it was his cares, or his resurrection that hung so heavily on his shoulders. But he was still Jon, her dearest brother, and so his face was sweet to her.

“I see you still have Needle,” Jon said, touching a finger to the hilt of the little blade at her hip. “I never thought to see him again.”

 _Or you,_ he didn't have to say.

Arya withdrew the blade a little, to show him how well she kept it, still so shiny and sharp. “It strayed for my side more than once, but I always got it back. It saved my life countless times, Jon.”

“I'm glad of it,” Jon said, his voice tight with emotion. “I had no notion when I gave it to you, but I'm glad it could protect you when I could not.”

“It's a good sword,” she said, her voice breaking between a sob and laugh, remembering the day he'd given it to her.

“Wolf girl?” Arya heard and looked over the balcony to see Sandor watching her, his face clouded with concern that would have looked like aggression to anyone who did not know him like she did. 

Jon stepped forward and spoke down to him. “I thought to take my sister to the crypt, Clegane, to see the shrines we have built for her family.”

Sandor looked as though he doubted the wisdom of this but Arya nodded her head. It hurt, but so many things hurt her, and she wasn't afraid.

“I want to see,” she said, then held out a hand when Sandor began to unlace his gauntlets, clearly preparing to join them.

“I'd like to be alone,” she said, keeping her voice kind to soften the blow. “Jon will protect me,” she assured him when Sandor cast her brother a suspicious look. 

Arya looked down at him steadily, telling him things they never spoke of aloud in her gaze, and then turned to follow Jon. He gently tucked her hand around his elbow and she allowed it, even leaned into his warmth.

“He doesn't trust me,” Jon said, when they'd drawn out of Sandor's hearing.

“You don't trust him,” she shot back, and Jon smiled in a chastened fashion. “He doesn't trust anyone. He's never been given any reason to.”

“He doesn't trust you?”

Arya thought about it and tried to unravel the enigma that was the Hound. “Not entirely. He knows what I'm capable of. But he does care about me, and he's loyal, and he'd kill for me or die for me. What more could I ask of him?”

Jon gave this as much consideration as he gave everything, her most considerate and thoughtful brother. The various people milling around Winterfell parted for them, showing the respect to Jon that she'd never seen for him as children.

“One cannot overcome one's truest nature,” he finally said. “Maybe it is not in his nature to trust, even the one he loves.”

Arya was too pleased by this to speak so she cleared her throat and pressed her lips together to hide her smile.

“Where is Ghost?” she asked to turn the conversation, inquiring after one more missing member of their dwindling family. “Is he-?”

Jon's face became even more solemn. “I have not seen him since before the battle to retake Winterfell.”

Arya was silent, mentally adding up the number of months.

“I do not believe he is dead. I feel I would know.” He turned to look at Arya searchingly. “Do you feel that way about Nymeria?”

Arya sucked in a sharp breath and closed her eyes. They were descending deeper into the castle and it was colder, like the death that awaited them in the crypts. It had been so long since she'd seen Nymeria, and yet...

“Sometimes I have dreams...”

“As if you could see through her eyes?” Jon asked, something strange in his voice.

Arya's eyes shot open and they shared a long look. “Yes,” she whispered, and Jon nodded gravely, understanding.

“Perhaps you will see her again one day. I trust Ghost will find his way back to me, somehow.”

**

They retrieved Sansa from her sewing, drawing her away from Brienne's watchful eye, and brought her with them. The three siblings were silent as the descended into the depths of the castle. They separated to walk down the spiral staircase leading into the crypt single file, but came back together at the bottom, Arya linking her arm with Jon and Sansa holding Arya's hand on the other side.

Their breaths were clouds of vapor by the glow of the torch Jon held to light their way and Arya took in the cold stone hall, a sight she'd never thought to see again. _I may be buried with my ancestors after all,_ she thought, and didn't realize how much the idea of ending up in an anonymous pauper's grave in Braavos or left to rot alone in a ditch in the Riverlands disturbed her until now.

“We do not know what has become of Father's bones,” Jon said regretfully, his voice hushed in the oppressive silence of the tombs. Sansa's hand gripped hers hard enough to be painful, but Arya was glad of it. It reminded her that her time had not come yet to join her ancestors. _Not today, Death._

“Nor Robb's, nor your mother's. We may find them one day.” 

Jon led them deep into the crypt, past the rows and rows of Stark lords and their families. The orange flame of the torch gave the stone faces brief warmth before they faded once more into darkness. 

Arya remembered, with horrifying clarity, Robb's head cut off and replaced by the head of Grey Wind, and thought they would never see the bones of their missing family again. Certainly she'd never heard any whisper of their remains while in the Frey Court, though she wouldn't be telling them of that, of course.

“And Rickon?” Arya asked, remembering the small boy who'd been left behind in Winterfell only as a memory, a wild boy who bit and kissed in the space of a handful of minutes, changeable as the wind. 

“He is here,” Sansa said, her voice echoing hollowly as they drew finally to the end of the crypt. Large slabs of stone were set into the wall and the beginnings of carving could be seen to be forming a head, indistinctly. 

“There are so few masters left to carve, but it will be completed one day,” Jon said firmly, in a voice that Arya had no trouble believing. “All of you will have statues; your mother and your brothers and yourselves. All of the Starks of this generation will be remembered forever.”

Arya realized that he'd omitted one amongst them. “And you, of course,” she said, and Jon gave her that steady, sad gaze of his.

“I'm not a Stark.”

“He'll have one,” Sansa said, and her voice was as firm and authoritative as Jon's had been. The two exchanged a glance over her head that was difficult for Arya to interpret. 

No one spoke of Bran, for no one was ready to acknowledge his likely death until they had irrefutable proof.

When they made their weary way out of the crypt and up the stairs into the castle, they found Sandor and Brienne waiting for them.

 _He followed me,_ she thought, but couldn't be angry at his lack of faith in Jon. She fell into his side gratefully, burying her face against his chest and letting him pet the back of her head gently before he became too conscious of their audience and let her go with a gruff noise.

Arya turned her head in time to see Brienne tenderly holding Sansa's hand. Jon watched his sisters and their protectors, looking grimly satisfied.

**

That night Arya fucked Sandor slowly, luxuriously, her hands flat on his chest for balance as she ground herself down onto his cock from above. Sandor had his palms cupped around her arse, helping to support her weight while she rolled her hips and rode him. It wasn't her favorite position, for she loved the burn of friction as he pounded into her from behind or the weight of him on top of her as he sank deep inside her. 

From above, however, she could look down into his eyes, and when he tried to look away from her intensity she could transfer her little hands to the side of his head and force him to face her. “Look at me,” she demanded fiercely and, unable to resist her command, he did.

“I love you,” she said, almost angrily, and Sandor's good eyebrow tilted back, the only betrayer of softness on his face. He did not reply to her, but he didn't have to.

“You don't have to say it,” she said, but she stroked the wispy strands of overly long hair from his face. He shuddered and flipped her over suddenly, curling up over her body and plunging back in, more desperately. His face was contorted with pleasure and something else. His soft groans told her he was near. She wrapped her legs and arms around him and let her own moans join his.

“Don't pull out,” she said when his head had dropped and his thrusts grown sharp and purposeful, signals she'd learned meant he would be withdrawing from her soon and spilling on her belly.

That got his attention. His head shot up and his hips froze, his cock still buried deep within her.

“There are so few of us left,” she whispered. “So few Starks.” 

There was no question in her mind, of course, that their children would be Starks. Sandor had no allegiance to his house any longer and it wasn't unheard of for a lady higher born than her husband to keep her own name. And who was going to tell them it was wrong, to name their children Stark? She knew Jon would support her and there was no higher authority in the North than Jon.

Sandor groaned and gave her a despairing look, caught obviously between the impulse to please her and his more pessimistic nature. “Have you lost your fucking wits, girl? What kind of world is this to bring a baby into? We probably won't survive the winter, much less long enough to raise a child!”

Arya clutched his arms and kept her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, to keep him from moving away from her. “Then let's make the time we have left count for something.” 

“And what about the poor brats?” he asked, and his voice was a little smaller now. She thought of what he'd told her of his own father, and how protecting his brother in favor of Sandor had been the worst betrayal of all. He probably didn't know what a good parent even looked or acted like. “We're killers,” he said, as if that was all they could be.

Arya felt like screaming. “We'd teach them to be brave and strong and we'd protect them, Sandor. We'd protect them from anything that tried to hurt them. We'll kill for them; we'll die for them; and when we're dead we'll come back as ghosts and haunt their enemies,” she almost shouted and reached up to grasp his face, making him look at her. 

“Put your son in me,” she said, each word punctuated by a harsh breath.

Sandor hung his head low, his shoulders shaking with conflict. “You insane cunt,” he said in despair and pushed up hard into her, the strength of his thrusts making her see stars before he was gasping and freezing above her. In the sudden stillness of their bodies she could feel the pulses of his cock as he emptied himself inside her. She felt the heat of his seed coating her insides and when he gingerly withdrew she could feel his semen gush out of her cunt. 

Before she could gasp at the emptiness Sandor replaced his cock with his fingers, pushing his seed back inside and then using it as lubricant to finger fuck her.

“Gods, _yes_ ,” she hissed when he dipped between her legs and lapped her twat clean of his come and then sucked her swollen clit into his mouth. It took only a moment of suckling before she was tumbling over into an orgasm that made her whole body tremble and her legs kick, landing an unintended blow to Sandor's shoulder.

Wincing, Sandor drew up beside his shaking wife and Arya rolled to him immediately, hiding her flushed face against him. 

She was gratified to feel his body relax after a few moments of what she imagined was furious internal conflict. He brought his arm up around her and held her silently to his chest until they both fell asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've come to the end of what I have written and I'm a bit conflicted about where I want this to go from here and how much of it I want to write. I definitely am not up to writing the battle of the Undead and the taking back of the North, but I want it to be addressed, as well as the return of Bran and the reveal of Jon's parentage. I say this to give everyone a warning that it will be slightly longer until this is updated again, but this is definitely NOT one of those WIPs that never gets finished. I promise I will not leave anyone hanging for an extended period.


	7. Chapter 7

Arya buried her collection of faces deep into the trunk that stood at the foot of her bed the morning after she decided she would be the one to bear the next Stark child. She hadn't had a need to use them since returning to Winterfell, and where before they'd given her comfort and freedom, now they disturbed her. For a woman who now contemplated new life in a way that was deeply personal, she felt less comfortable with the idea of worshiping death. She wondered, even, if the Many Faced God would let her use his gifts again, or if He would sense in her a change that was at conflict with the darkness she'd once carried around her neck like a burden. 

Her hand hovered over the face of the serving girl who had murdered Walder Frey, and she was tempted to try, but she was also afraid. What if she were with child already? Would transformation do something to harm the baby? It wasn't as if any of the Faceless Men had guided her on such things. Instead she tucked the face with the others, all the way at the bottom where she wouldn't have to see them again unless she sought them out and covered them up with clothing and furs.

At the door she looked back wistfully at the trunk. In her heart she bade farewell to a life she could have lived- had once had every intention of both living and dying by. But she had other things to live for now, and she mentally closed the door on what might have been.

“I'll do my killing with my own face from now on,” she said, to comfort herself, and left the chamber to find Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school starts in a week, so the impetus to get this finished is on while I still have free time. Still not entirely sure where this going but its... going somewhere, ha ha.


	8. Chapter 8

When Arya had heard that Sansa and Jon had retaken Winterfell, she'd felt inside her a deep urgency to return home. They'd needed her, she'd thought, and it had felt like more than just an urge, but rather a prophetic force. And yet, as she settled into Winterfell, she found that she was little needed in any practical sense.

Had Arya wanted to be a part of the endless rounds of discussion between her brother and the Lords of the North, she'd have waded in among them, knife in her fist if necessary, and demanded their attention. But she didn't, and instinctively knew that her place was not amongst the planners. The enemy they spoke of was an enemy even Arya did not feel ready to face. She'd always been a woman of action, not a talker, and found the anxious, endless rounds of what _might_ happen when the wights managed to make their way over the wall frightening and frustrating.

Sandor was cut from the same cloth as Arya and quickly spurned Jon's tentative efforts to include him in their discussions. “Point me in the direction of the men you want dead,” he'd growled and left the hall, Arya trailing behind him, in favor of the training yard where he sparred with Wildlings and taught Arya how to fight with a real sword- albeit a small one- by day, and feasted with Wildlings by night.

It hadn't taken Arya or Sandor long to realize that they had much more in common with Wildlings than they did the more civilized Westerosi aristocracy. Their wild and ferocious nature rang true to Arya, who'd never been particularly genteel and had only grown less so after leaving Winterfell. 

While the Lords and members of the other Northern households gave the Wildlings a wide berth, Arya and Sandor had waded in amongst them, a knife in one fist and a mug of foul fermented goat's milk in the other

Of all the Wildlings, they both liked Tormund Giantsbane the best. Sandor and Tormund had bonded over a love of axes in battle and could frequently be found sparring, and Arya found his stories fascinating and his respect for the abilities of female fighters (little spearwife, he called Arya) appealing.

“And my second wife I stole from the Thornfoot clan- Wylba, she was called, and her feet were as black and tough as old leather, just as they say. I hoped my daughter off Wylba would inherit her feet and save me the cost of shoeing her, but she's a pink little lass right down to her toes,” Tormund said one night after they'd worn themselves out in the training yard and Sandor bore a bandage on his hand from around an accidental cut he'd received from Tormund's axe.

“Your second wife?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I thought you said your first wife was still living?”

Tormund tipped his head and stroked his beard with one hand. “Aye, well, she didn't like my second wife and moved back to her father's tent. Of course Wylba didn't like _me_ much, as it turned out, and left me with my pink lass to raise and took up with another man.”

He didn't seem as concerned over this as Arya would have thought and she exchanged a glance with Sandor, who was smirking and looking not nearly as shocked as Arya.

“You _steal_ wives? Don't their families come after you?” she asked.

Tormund shrugged carelessly. “It's our way, little spearwife. It's bad luck to marry within your own clan. You steal a wife from another clan to thin the blood. If the woman is not fierce enough to fight off her husband then the man is deemed worthy of her. A strong, bold wife is desired. Makes strong sons.”

“Prevents inbreeding,” Sandor put in, as though he found the idea not insensible. “If they only fucked their own clan they'd be mad as Targaryens within a few of generations.” 

She looked between the two huge men, her lips thin. If anyone had ever tried to steal her she'd have hung them with their own intestines. “Do spearwives ever steal men from other tribes?”

Tormund's eyebrows lifted, impressed by the idea. “I'd love to see the woman who could,” he said wistfully, and Arya saw him look longingly over at Brienne where she sat by Sansa's side at the front of the Great Hall. “Imagine the sons off of such a woman.” He hungrily ripped off a chunk of meat from the bone in his hand and continued to stare.

Sandor and Arya exchanged amused smirks. Tormund's passion for Brienne was no secret to anyone- save Brienne, perhaps, who seemed to find Tormund's fascination with her offensive and confusing. 

“Just to be clear,” Arya said, trying to hide her smile. Though she'd largely forgiven Brienne, she was spiteful enough to give Tormund enough hope he'd continue to pursue the giant maiden. “You do not at present have any other wives? A woman like that, well... she wouldn't want to share. You might make it clear to her that you're, er, available.”

Tormund looked back at her, his face thoughtful. “No other wives,” he nodded solemnly. “With a wife like that, you'd only need one.”

Arya laughed at such a besotted expression on so hard a face and looked coyly over at her husband. “You know I'd cut your throat if you ever took a second wife, don't you?” she asked him and Sandor gave her side a squeeze. His hand curled around her and settled on her belly, where she suspected she was already housing the newest Stark, though it was too soon to confirm.

“Vicious little spearwife,” he said, voice warm with affection and slow from the potent goat's milk.

**

A month later, when she'd still not had her blood, Arya visited the Maester and confirmed that the thickening of her waist has less to do with a steady diet and more to do with a child growing within her.

The night she made her announcement was a joyful one, for everyone but Sandor. She could tell he was worried by the pale, pinched expression he wore and the way he snarled wordlessly every time someone congratulated him, scaring off everyone but Tormund, who just snarled right back at him.

“He's concerned,” Arya told Jon and Sansa as they sat in the little family room that they still sometimes retreated to, late into the night after most of the castle was abed. Sansa was sitting on a stool at her feet, already piecing together baby clothes and Jon sat beside Arya, his arm wrapped around her and his face as soft and hopeful as she'd seen it yet.

That was what the baby was to all of them: hope.

“He's so large and I am so small,” she said uneasily, admitting for the first time that his concerns for her ability to carry a child were not unfounded. “Well, and you remember his brother.” 

The Mountain didn't even bear thinking of.

Short and small of bosom and hip, she did not have the body typically considered ideal for child bearing, and Sandor's entire family was abnormally -and in the case of his brother, monstrously- large. Additionally, she had no idea what harm the Waif's blade had done to her guts, if any. She'd been half afraid she'd never be able to conceive, and when she had her joy had lasted only a short time before fear that she wouldn't be able to keep the babe overrode them. 

“Women have been bearing children since time began,” Sansa said firmly around the needle in her mouth. She looked around for the scissors she had set down and Brienne, ever attentive, reached under Sansa's chair and retrieved the fallen item. 

Arya rested a hand on her belly, still mostly flat. Jon had made it clear to them that when he had accepted the title of King in the North that a child of a true Stark would be his heir. Arya might have fought for his right to his own heirs, but it had felt right. A Stark should sit at the head of Winterfell, and she was determined to provide one.

Of everyone who had been happy about her news, however, by far Sansa had been happiest. Arya wondered if in some regards Sansa was relieved to have the burden of producing a Stark heir taken from her shoulders and placed on Arya's. Without question she was more carefree and more optimistic than Arya had yet seen her, and considering the disaster that had been her first two marriages, Arya couldn't really blame her. 

It was only that _she'd_ never really imagined herself as the mothering sort either, even when Arya had demanded that Sandor plant his seed inside her. The reality of a baby was a bit more startling than the _idea_ of a baby had been. 

“Women have been dying in the effort to bear children since time began,” she snapped back, and an uncomfortable pall fell over their little group at the reminder of the very real danger. It wasn't so much that Arya was afraid to die- she wasn't, even now that she had so much to live for. But she didn't _want_ to die, and more, she wanted to bring her child into the world and be there to watch him or her grow. 

Children, she was finding to her disgust, had a way of changing one's perspective. Sometimes she felt so distant to that girl she'd once been she could barely believe she'd been real. Once she thought she could be No One. Now she felt so much a Stark it was breathtaking. 

“No Stark woman has died giving birth in generations,” Sansa rallied.

“Our Tully grandmother died in childbirth,” Arya said morosely and the tense silence that fell over their little party was not broken up until Sandor came up behind them and touched Arya's head, stroking his fingers through the strands of her hair. 

He pulled a hunk of her hair until Arya's head tipped back so that she could look up at him. His voice was rough but his eyes were searching, worried. “This is supposed to be a celebration, isn't it?”

“Yes,” she said, and suddenly felt like crying. She didn't know what was wrong with her, for she thought she'd left tears long behind her, but she blamed it on the baby.

Sandor stroked Arya's cheek, showing more open tenderness than he ever had in public before. “You're stronger than anyone I know, wolf girl,” he said gruffly, and Arya wasn't sure if his words were to reassure her or himself.

Arya smiled through the tears that wanted to come and tried to believe him. 

**

And then Bran, flanked by Meera Reed, Nymeria and Ghost, returned to Winterfell, and everything changed.


	9. Chapter 9

Arya watched Nymeria skulk along the edge of the wood surrounding Winterfell. She could tell Nymeria watched her as well, but she hadn't yet approached, even when Arya had taken hunks of meat in her hands and tried to coax her out. Sandor, not understanding the inexplicable connection all the Stark children had to their direwolves, had been furious, though unable to stop her. He stood within a few feet of her when they left the protective walls of the castle, his axe in hand, and scowled at the direwolf from afar. 

She wanted to believe Sandor must be scaring Nymeria off, for he'd absolutely refused to allow Arya anywhere near the direwolf alone, but she knew that Nymeria was changed since she'd last seen her. Her time with Arya had been so short and the life she'd spent around the wolves of Westeros had made her wild.

Bran had told them that Nymeria and Ghost had been waiting for Bran and Meera on the other side of the wall. They didn't know how long the wolves had waited or how they'd known they would be there, but their intentions had been plain. Ghost padded along close to their side and Nymeria ranged around their little party, never drawing near but always watchful. More than once Bran and Meera had traveled down the road to find men with their throats torn out and their weapons lying uselessly by their sides. In the distance they'd catch glimpses of Nymeria, her eyes alert and her muzzle scarlet with blood.

Nymeria would not come into the castle, or even the courtyard, but when Arya went to the woods she could see her, watching her mistress and stalking the small game that hadn't yet been hunted to scarcity so early in the winter. 

“It will just take time,” she said, more to herself than to Sandor, and believed it in her heart. Even over the distance Arya could feel the connection between them, stronger now than it had been in years, and growing every day. She needed her wolf. It was part of what made her a Stark. 

“Fucking wolf,” Sandor spat and Arya shot him a malevolent look.

She knew he was only worried for her, particularly now that her waist had begun to thicken noticeably, reminding him every time he looked at her that she was vulnerable, but she'd lost sympathy with his attitude quickly. 

“You won't stop me,” she said. 

“And if that bitch tries to hurt you, you won't stop me,” he shot back and they shared hard looks, neither conceding any ground. 

“She won't hurt me,” Arya said firmly, but tossed the scraps of meat she'd brought and wiped her bloody hands on her dress, though she kept the muck clear of the cloak Sansa had made for her with the direwolf embroidered upon the breast. 

“I love you, Sandor, and I know you only want to keep me safe,” she continued, reaching out a hand to touch his forearm and draw his eyes back up to her when they dropped bashfully at her words. She used to find it so difficult to tell him she loved him, but she could feel herself softening every day. Or maybe the baby was making her stronger, more herself and less the brutal creature circumstances and hate had made her into.

“But you can't keep me from my direwolf. She's part of me.”

She could tell he didn't understand, and probably never would, but he didn't pursue the argument. They turned back to the castle and began to make their way through the thick snow to the courtyard, Arya behind Sandor so she could step into his large footprints. The brief winter sun had dipped down behind the trees in the short time they'd been outside and Arya heard a lonely howl from behind her, Nymeria calling to her mistress in the darkness.

In the castle they found their family in the little room that had begun, more and more, to become a war conference room and less a family living area. Bran sat by the fire, covered in furs and looking gaunt and sad, with Meera holding his left hand and Jon at his right. Though Bran had not challenged Jon for his position, Jon had stepped aside with such grace and magnanimity that even his most ardent supporters had been too awed to argue. Bran slipped into the role of head of the Stark family and Jon took the mantle of leader of the Northern army. 

What Jon truly was, only their little family and a select few knew, and no one yet agreed upon what must be done with the information. Arya found, upon learning that Jon was her cousin and not her brother, that her feelings for him were unchanged, and mentally put the startling knowledge that Jon had as much claim to the Iron Throne as anyone alive to the back of her mind. He was Jon and she loved him, which was all she needed to know. 

Ser Davos, Tormund and Jon were speaking gravely, and Arya had the sinking feeling that they shouldn't have come, even though it had become a habit in the evenings to come together, the last remaining members of the Stark family. It should have been happy and cozy, but it wasn't. War and memories hung over them too heavily, so even the light moments had a pall cast upon them, and domestic conversations lasted only until their words inevitably turned back to what was coming. 

Where before they'd only been able to plan what _might_ happen, however, with Bran's arrival he'd brought a strange knowledge of what was to come, a knowledge that had been proven over and over again. He'd known that the Dragon Queen would take King's Landing a full fortnight before a raven had arrived bearing the news and demanding the head of the Stark family come to King's Landing to swear his fealty. No one dared to question Bran's knowledge anymore and when he spoke his quiet voice commanded every bit of the respect and attention his father's once had.

And now, judging by the tension in the room, it seemed Bran had made another prediction. Jon looked up at their arrival, his eyebrows slanted down in worry, and Arya grew afraid.

It was Sansa who spoke first, her voice heavy. "Bran says the White Walkers will find a way over the wall within three months. Jon must go to King's Landing and negotiate with Queen Daenerys. Her dragons are our only hope."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, for a sexy interlude because... reasons.
> 
> This chapter is straight up porn with very little plot. If you're tired of smut, you could skip this without missing much. To recap:
> 
> It takes place a few months in the future. Matters with the White Walkers are coming to a head and Jon has gone to King's Landing to request Daenerys and her dragon's help in defeating them.

_Sandor_

“Sandor,” Arya whined softly, hanging onto his arm and looking up at him with that desperate, burning look he'd grown to recognize at a glance. Sandor had bested the Wildling he'd been sparring with and it seemed to have gotten the girl's blood up. As Arya had no more outlet for her aggression, being too far along in her pregnancy to work with her sword, Sandor had found that she watched his own practicing with an attentiveness that was almost indecent.

Sandor sighed and glanced around to make sure no one was within hearing distance, trying to look resigned to mask the pleased flutter in his stomach. Even after all these months, it sometimes still didn't seem possible that the little Stark girl could want him, but every day she proved she did, in the way her eyes tracked him and the way she stuck by his side like a stubborn burr. She proved it every night when she climbed onto him and touched him before he'd even had a chance to take off his armor, and more often than not she proved her desire in the mornings and in the afternoons too, if she could coax him back up to their room.

He'd found that Arya's pregnancy had done nothing to dampen her enthusiasm for fucking. The girl had been voracious from the start, and sometimes he'd been at pains to keep up with her youthful appetite. Often, depleted from their frequent coupling, he'd had to put her off with a hand between her legs or his tongue in her twat. And, despite his increasing concerns he might harm her baby, Arya demanded he continue to service her as enthusiastically as he ever had.

He told her often enough to go and take care of her own business, but he always went when she called anyway, for he never felt any peace when the girl was not within his sight.

“Sandor,” Arya repeated impatiently, rubbing her breasts against his arm in a way that she probably considered to be quite subtle, though Sandor saw the Wildling he'd bested smirk good-naturedly in their direction. 

“Come on, then,” Sandor gruffed, wiping the icy sweat off his forehead and tucking his gauntlets under his arm. Arya grinned and tucked her arm around his back, snuggling up under his cloak to steal his warmth. _Little girl,_ he thought with so much love it was painful as he looked down at the head that didn't even reach his shoulder. 

What wouldn't he do for her? There was nothing.

Arya raced up the stairs ahead of him when they came to the passage where they'd been assigned their permanent room and waited for him at the top, stretching and bouncing on her toes. Although the swell of her belly seemed worryingly large on her small body, she had not yet experienced any of the ill effects of pregnancy so many women seemed to suffer from. She remained as energetic and strong as she ever was, and as hungry for physical activity, both of the sexual and combative varieties. It went a long way toward reassuring Sandor's mind, especially every time the Maester smiled and nodded happily at Arya's progress. 

“I haven't been working you hard enough, I see,” Sandor said, unable to suppress his smile as she fidgeted, waiting for his slower progress on the leg that ached in the cold. 

“You need to work me harder,” she said saucily, and Sandor chuckled. She looked so alive and healthy; she was like a beacon of light to Sandor, when everything around them was cold and uncertain and dark.

Sandor made his way to the top and gathered her small form in his arms, heedless of who might see in the overcrowded castle. “I will,” he growled down into her glowing face. 

Although they'd both agreed that swords were out of the question (he firmly and she reluctantly), Arya insisted he still help her with her form and her strength exercises and even the Maester admitted that she seemed to thrive with activity. 

Arya leaned against his leg, grinding her crotch against his thigh as much as she could with her distended belly in the way. Sandor laughed softly and half dragged, half led her down the hall to their room. 

She withdrew the key to their room and pushed her way in, already shedding the outer layers of her clothing, even though their room was cool from the morning's waning fire. Although they'd been given one of the prized rooms with the most heating from the underground hot springs beneath the castle, Sandor went to the hearth and threw some logs on the coals anyway.

“Leave your cloak on,” he said, and though she rolled her eyes, when she'd stripped off her dress and undergarments, she draped her cloak back over her shoulders. The swell of her belly parted the cloak and she looked down and smiled ruefully at the pink scars from her abdomen wound stretched tight and joined by fainter little worms of stretch marks.

Sandor didn't care; if Arya could learn to live with the scars that rendered his face hideous, he could certainly ignore the knife wounds. He thought, briefly, of how it had felt to wear Arya's masks and become someone different, someone unblemished, and as quickly put the thought aside. That wasn't who Arya wanted.

Sandor watched Arya drag a pillow down from headboard and then perch herself on it at the edge of the bed. With her growing belly, it was the most comfortable position they'd found, allowing Sandor to keep his weight off of her and also opening her wide up. Arya, noticing that Sandor watched her, leaned back on her elbows and parted her legs invitingly. The robe fell aside, revealing the dark fluff of hair between her legs and her glistening pink cunt, already wet with eagerness.

He groaned and roughly pushed his boots and trousers off in one go, though he too draped his cloak back over his body before going to his wife. He leaned over her and traced a finger over a swollen, tender breast. Her breath caught and then she mewled in a most satisfying manner, squirming and arching up to his touch. Her breasts had grown more sensitive with her pregnancy and she went wild when he stroked and touched them softly, just enough to tease but not hard enough to hurt her.

“Sandor,” she moaned and she reached out to draw him between her legs and nearer, using a hand on the back of his neck to bring his head down to those pert little tits. He ran his tongue up the underside of one and flicked the tip of his tongue against the nipple. Arya grunted at the sensation and it sent a pulse of desire through Sandor, making his cock fill with blood and his balls grow heavy between his legs. He shifted so that his cock rubbed against her cunt, delighting her and arousing him to full tumescence, before bending back over to tease her nipples. 

It didn't take much; she was young and impatient and soon she was urging him down. He kissed his way over her belly and then pulled the little stool Arya had presented him with for this specific purpose over so he could sit where she wanted him. Immediately she rested her heels against his broad shoulders and relaxed, letting her thighs fall wide and settling in to enjoy what Sandor felt pretty certain was her favorite activity, if the frequency with which she demanded it was anything to judge by.

Well, it didn't hurt him, and the sounds she made made him feel young and impatient too.

Her scent was strong between her legs, earthy and musky, but Sandor wasn't so fine he cared and when he ran the flat of his tongue up her cunt he savored the salty taste of her. Above him Arya squealed and bucked and Sandor, grinning at her pleasure, clutched her hips to keep her still and dove back in, suckling her clit roughly, the way she liked it. She got one heel up on the bed for leverage and then she was undulating beneath him, rolling up into his mouth and straining against him. When he looked up he saw that she'd propped herself up on her elbows so she could watch him, her face red and her lip caught between her teeth.

“Sandor, oh _fuck,_ don't stop,” she babbled, and Sandor could never have explained the way it made him feel to know that she could look at his face and not be disgusted- that she liked to watch him when he gave her pleasure. Feeling like he swallowed a bit of her brightness, he gave her what she wanted, alternating rapid flicks of his tongue against the head of her clit and sucking the meat into his mouth, engorging the flesh with blood and making her groan desperately. When he added his fingers to her dripping wet cunt Arya climaxed spectacularly, letting out a long, low moan of satisfaction and clamping down around his fingers like a vice. Her whole body froze and he kept licking, nuzzling her through her orgasm for those few precious seconds until her body unlocked and he withdrew, knowing he risked a kick if he touched her sensitized flesh now.

Arya fell back to the bed, grinning and her chest heaving with the force of her breaths. He waited, kissing the insides of her thighs and licking the opening of her cunt, to see what she wanted next. Arya, as she did in most things, liked to lead him in this too, and it was his pleasure to await hers.

She recovered quickly, guiding his mouth back to her clit before her passage had even stopped spasming, and came again in moments, her subsequent orgasms always coming more quickly than the first.

“Sandor, I need you- _now,_ ” Arya cried impatiently, before Sandor had quite got his breath back, though he had no complaints about following her orders. He stood and she poised herself for him, drawing her knees back and curling up so that her pelvis was angled enough her belly was not in the way. The bed was the the perfect height (he suspected Arya had had something to do with that) so that when he bent over the bed and braced his hands on either side of her head all he had to do was angle his hips so that the tip of his cock caught on the rim of her cunt. Then he was sinking inside her pleasure loosened channel and they both sighed with relief. 

He held himself still above her to let her adjust, and just let himself _feel._ She was so hot and tight and yet so wet that when he'd slid inside there had been no resistance at all. Her cunt still clutched and pulsed with the aftereffects of her orgasm and it tickled the head of his cock. He wondered if, given time, could Arya bring him to climax with just the strength of her internal muscles? And, more importantly, would Arya ever be patient enough to try such a thing?

Grinning with amusement at the thought, Sandor withdrew and then pushed luxuriously back inside, savoring every delicious bit of slow friction. Soon Arya would demand he fuck her hard, but for now he kept a slow but steady rhythm, making himself concentrate on the way her wet flesh rubbed the underside of his crown, where he was most sensitive. They were such different sizes that Sandor sometimes thought that they must be an offense to the gods, for she was so tiny and he so large that it sometimes still surprised him that he did not break her when they fucked. And yet he'd never felt such pleasure with any other woman, and he'd think at other times that she had been made for him and him alone. 

Fanciful thoughts. He'd never been one prone to imagination, having a hard time seeing anything other than the ugly reality around him, but Arya had made him different. 

_I love you,_ he thought fiercely, and couldn't hold back his passion anymore. He leaned his weight against his hands to give himself the ability to fuck her harder, short jabbing thrusts that gave him the greatest friction.

Arya was grunting with each quick thrust, but the smoldering gaze she shot up at him told him he was not hurting her. She reached up and put one hand on his shoulder and put the other to the scarred side of his face and looked up at him fiercely, daring him to shake her off. He didn't, though he leaned over and gave her a rare kiss to show her that he felt the same way she did, even if he wasn't brave enough to say it.

He could feel his orgasm gathering like a storm cloud in the sky, heavy with promise. The tip of his cock began to burn and his balls tightened and the muscles in his abdomen fluttered in anticipation. “Fuck- Arya!” Sandor shouted, muffling the noise against her shoulder. He leaned a knee against the edge of the bed and heaved into her, shaking the bed as he fucked her through an orgasm that made his body feel like he was burning from the inside out.

Afterwards he braced himself above her, shuddering and weak with exhaustion. He knew Arya would want more, because she always did and was already squirming underneath him, but he took a moment to look down at her flushed face and really feel the happiness that was all the more precious for knowing that it could end any day.

“Sandor,” Arya prompted and Sandor rolled his eyes. Withdrawing his tender cock from her body was a torture, so he crawled up into the bed and pulled her to him, helping her climb on top so when she lay with her back to his chest he could easily reach her clit without having to put much effort into it. Arya giggled and wriggled against him, uncaring if her weight crushed him, and he uncaring as well. Her shoulder blades dug into his ribs but even rounded with child she didn't weigh enough to hurt him. He reached around her body and slid his still firm cock back into her warm, seed slicked cunt and then drew his hand up so he could rub her clit. He wrapped his other arm around her belly to keep her from rolling off. She came before his cock had softened fully and slipped out of her and then again before she was finally satisfied.

Sandor wiped his wet hand on the bedspread and then brought his other arm around Arya, beneath her breasts, so that his arms encircled the baby. Arya turned her head so that she could press a kiss to Sandor's chin. He was having a hard time keeping his eyes open, and though he knew Arya could spring up off the bed and race back down to the practice yard, he could feel sleeping tugging at the edges of his vision.

With a soft grunt he rolled their bodies, drawing Arya back up against him, his arm curled around her belly, and was asleep in moments.

**

When Sandor awoke it was to a chill brushing across his exposed skin. Arya had draped furs over him, but his face was cold. He brushed his hair off his forehead and watched his wife stare out the small window of their South facing room. 

Her solemn face was dusted with the snow that had drifted in and her eyebrows were tilted back sorrowfully. It wasn't the first time he'd caught her staring to the South, and she'd told him enough of her frustrations to imagine what she was thinking.

He knew she was thinking of what they had missed in King's Landing, even though neither of them had expressed regret over their choice to come to Winterfell. It galled them both to miss it, the destruction of their enemies. They knew that Cersei and Gregor were dead, had been killed when Daenerys Targaryan had stormed the city, taking it with dragon fire and huge foreign armies, but the news coming from such a distance didn't have the same satisfaction as feeling their blood on his own hands. 

Still, they'd made their choice and seeing Arya in her ancestral home, thick with child and happy even amidst the uncertainty and death of winter and war, reminded him that there _was_ something sweeter than death.

Arya shivered and huddled in her cloak and Sandor got out of the bed, dragging the furs with him.

Hearing him, Arya looked over her shoulder at him, and Sandor's anger at his enemies melted a little more. 

His hatred and his lust for revenge were not as burning as they once had been. He didn't know if it was because he was growing older and presumably wiser, or if it was Septon Ray who'd taught him there were other ways to live. More likely it was Arya and the knowledge that there was something else in the world for him besides hate and killing.

He wouldn't tell Arya he loved her, though they both knew he did. Love was a trickier emotion than hate, he'd found. Saying he loved Arya would make it too real and too vulnerable, for if Sandor knew anything it was that the things he cared about were taken from him.

The wolf girl, though. She was stubborn and she was strong, even if her body was small. If anyone could resist the pull of his dark fate, it was her. 

He came up behind her and draped the furs over her shoulders before putting his arms around her waist, cupping her belly in his large hands and drawing her body back against his own. She softened against him immediately, letting her head nestle back into his chest, and he found her trust intoxicating.

“They say her dragons burned them alive,” Arya whispered, even though Sandor had heard the same stories she had. “How long do you think they screamed?”

“A long time,” he answered, not because he believed they'd survived the incredible heat of dragonfire any longer than any other mortal could, but because it was what Arya wanted to hear. The chill he always felt at the thought of fire was tempered by the satisfaction of knowing his brother had, at least, received a fitting death.

Arya reached back to pull his cloak around the two of them and then covered the backs of his hands with her palms. Her fingers are cold on top of his and although they looked to the South, all they could really see was a thick blanket of snow. 

“I hope we'll see her dragons.”

Sandor did too, though not because he gave a fuck about seeing a few cunty dragons. He knew, as everyone in the North knew, that Jon had gone to King's Landing to beg the queen for help. Bran said that dragons were their only hope when the White Walkers finally crossed over the wall. 

Bran had been so consistently right about practically everything he'd said that Sandor couldn't help but believe him, even when he'd told them of the terrible things to come.

“I hope we see them too,” he said, and leaned down to kiss the top of her cold head. 

Hope. It was such a tenacious weed that no matter how many times it had been pulled up by the roots, it grew back.

Sandor held Arya tightly and hoped.


	11. Chapter 11

By the time Jon brought Daenerys to Winterfell, Arya had grown so large that people tended to stare at her in amazement to see such a small woman so hugely pregnant. The strain around Sandor's eyes was permanent and he had a tendency to snap at her if she tried to tease him out of his bad mood and then dance attendance upon her in penitence, as though if he did everything he could to keep her happy and comfortable he could prevent her from harm.

It took her twice as long to make the journey from the castle to the woods as it had not a month prior, and when she did she was winded and had to stop and catch her breath several times along the way. Arya could have told Sandor- and often did- that though the baby certainly impeded her movements and tired her more easily, she was not truly suffering or ill. But Sandor, his jaw tight, refused to be comforted and simply stood and looked around alertly, even though Bran told them that the army of the wights were still many leagues away from Winterfell.

“Thank you for bringing me,” Arya told him, to try and coax him out of his bad mood, but he just gave her a tortured look. She sighed and wondered why he'd offered to bring her at all. In truth, she hadn't thought to visit Nymeria again before her child was born, relying instead on watching from her window nightly until the direwolf came to the edge of the woods to howl up at her mistress. It had been Sandor's idea, though, and she'd leaped on the chance to have a few moments of peace away from the bustle of the castle as it prepared itself for war and the arrival of thousands of human visitors and three fully grown dragons.

Now she wondered at his motivations, for though Nymeria and Arya had grown closer over the months since the wolf's arrival, Sandor had kept his distance.

Arya leaned against a tree to give her back some relief and called to her direwolf. She didn't have to wait long before the grey beast trotted silently through the woods towards her, her golden eyes glowing in the shade of the trees. With difficulty Arya went down to her knee and Nymeria loped up to her, her tongue bathing her mistresses' face in a quick greeting before the she retreated a few steps back, wary of Sandor. Her intelligent golden eyes flicked to him and when Arya followed her gaze she was surprised to see that he wasn't holding his axe.

His jaw looked like it could crack under the strain of his clenched teeth and his shoulders were as tight as a bow string, but his hands were relaxed and neither of his weapons were drawn. Before Arya could ask him what he was doing Sandor opened his mouth and spoke, addressing Nymeria directly.

“It's time for you to come to the castle and stay by Arya's side, Nymeria. You must protect her while I'm gone.”

Arya's jaw dropped and she sucked in such a sharp breath of shock that it made something cramp painfully deep in her pelvis. “What?” she gasped, but neither her husband nor her wolf were looking at her, but rather at each other, as though a silent conversation was going on between them that only they could hear.

Nymeria walked slowly to Sandor's side, her head down slightly in submission, and when she was close enough she inclined her head and licked Sandor's empty hand, just once. And then she ran ahead of them, to the edge of the wood and looked back, as though they were the ones who had been holding her back from the castle all along.

And then Arya realized it had been _Sandor_ holding her back and that the gradual rekindling of warmth between Arya and Nymeria had not been Nymeria building trust in Arya, for that had been built years ago, but Sandor's growing trust in Nymeria.

Arya struggled to her feet, feeling dizzy with fatigue and anger and relief. “What the fuck?” she cried.

Sandor looked at her, and she might have been imagining it, but she thought he looked slightly less anxious. “Bran said that you would need her while I'm gone,” he said, and it was a sign of the dependence they all put in Bran's word that he'd taken the step of entrusting his wife and child to what he still considered a wild creature. 

Or maybe it was simply desperation. Every man and woman with any fighting ability would be going to meet the White Walkers when Jon returned with Daenerys, and perhaps Nymeria would be Arya's best protector left.

Her anger left her and she came up to him, her arms out for the comfort that only Sandor's closeness could give her. “I will,” she said, close to tears as she always seemed to be those days. When she pulled back a short while later, her face still moist, she laughed sheepishly. She'd stopped being embarrassed by her emotional upheavals months ago, though Sandor still didn't seem to know how to handle her when she cried. She used the edge of his cloak to wipe her face, because she'd wiped much worse things on it, and then turned to follow Nymeria back to the castle.


	12. Chapter 12

When outriders brought the news that Daenerys and Jon were only a days' ride behind them, the relief and celebration in the castle were as sweet and sharp as the first thawing of spring after a brutal winter. Everyone's greatest fear had been that Daenerys would not arrive before the White Walkers came to Winterfell.

The night before Daenerys's army arrived the castle's atmosphere was more celebratory than fearful. As many people as possible squeezed into the Great Hall, creating an oppressive, sweltering atmosphere that seemed to affect Arya more than anyone else. Sweat poured from her face and she would not allow Sandor to touch her, for every point of contact on her body ached. She felt feverish and cramping pains radiated through her pelvis, harder and more regular than the infrequent contractions she'd experienced for the past few days. She suspected that her time was growing very near, and was angry about it. For all that she'd been impatient to birth her child for _months_ it seemed to her the height of unfairness that it should happen _now_ when everything in the castle was so exciting and Daenerys was finally coming to Winterfell after months of Jon's negotiations. 

She had wanted to see the dragons so badly! 

Arya shifted uncomfortably on the bench beneath her and rubbed her belly in annoyance, though nothing relieved the sharp, rhythmic cramps in her loins. Brienne, who was sitting with Sansa across the table from her caught her eye with concern. Over the months that Arya had been at Winterfell, she'd secretly grown to be as fond of simple, earnest Brienne as everyone who knew her seemed to be.

“Sandor should have married you. This fucking whelp is big as a bear and twice as quarrelsome,” Arya said grumpily and snickered when Brienne's eyebrows shot up and her expression turned horrified. Sandor gave one of his rare laughs at Brienne's expression and Arya smiled through her pain and distemper, pleased to hear her solemn husband's amusement. He laughed so little these days, between fear for her and, she suspected, fear of dragonfire. He could fight any man, but add fire to the fight and his memories seemed to overcome him.

She could only hope that when the time came to choose between his fear of fire and his fear of Arya coming to harm, he made the right choice.

Their conversation attracted Sansa's attention and she looked over at her sister's perspiring face with a sharp eye. Arya wanted to snarl at her to turn away, but the pressure in her pelvis was too distracting. She was breathing hard and now Sandor was looking at her too, the anxiety on his face coming back in full force after the brief respite they'd all felt after learning Daenerys's dragons were finally coming to Winterfell. 

Arya huffed and glared and reminded herself she wasn't afraid of pain. They'd attracted more attention now, including Bran who sat several seats down from them in the wheeled chair that had been built for him. He didn't look concerned or surprised- he looked like he'd expected this all along.

“But I wanted to see the dragons!” Arya wailed, clutching her belly as though she could keep the baby inside for just a few more days.

Bran smiled his solemn little smile and had Meera push him around to her side. Arya looked at him pleadingly, looking for the comfort that his words could sometimes provide- when he wasn't predicting horrible things. He never spoke as much as anyone wanted him to, though. Although she'd asked many times, he'd never told her what he saw for her future or that of her child's. He lifted a slender hand and brushed it across her flushed cheek. “You'll see the dragons, Arya,” and that was all the reassurance he would give her.

Arya nodded miserably and shakily rose from her seat, turning and putting an arm on Sandor's shoulder for steadiness. Sandor made an unhappy noise and pulled Arya off her feet, cradling her bulk to his chest, the movement making her cry out in pain and cling to her husband for comfort.

Bran calmly turned to Brienne and Sansa. “Get the Maester.”

**

Arya did see the dragons, though only from the open window of her room and from a great distance. It gave her some measure of comfort in the pained, reddened haze of labor to look out the window and see the stream of thousands of soldiers and the three great dragons in the air, so distant they looked like little more than birds.

Arya's birth was not as difficult as some, nor as easy as other's. Though she'd carried her child more easily than anyone could have hoped, the baby was large like his father and would not be brought into the world without a struggle. But Arya was strong and athletic, and with her husband by one side (to Sansa's horror, for men were not usually allowed in the birthing room) and Nymeria lying patiently on the floor of her bed on the other side, her labors ended with the safe birth of the Stark heir.

“I told you it would be a boy,” Arya whispered in exhaustion when Sansa, looking so happy she might burst with it, placed the cleaned and squalling baby to Arya's milk swollen breast. The baby, fat and pink with health, snuffled around like a puppy before latching onto her breast. With a groan of discomfort, Arya pulled her aching body up so she could lean against the headboard and cradle the babe in her arms. She looked down into his red face and felt.... she couldn't even describe how she felt. There were no words in any language she knew of.

“I didn't doubt you,” Sandor lied, too pleased to argue with his wife. He was touching her hair and occasionally pressing spontaneous kisses to her forehead, as though he truly had not believed she would make it through the experience alive. At her urging he even stroked a cautious finger over the back of the baby's head as if he feared his huge paw might lose control and crush his son. 

The whiteness in Sandor's face was receding, and the tightness around his eyes was finally relaxing. The smile on his face seemed foreign after the weeks of scowling Arya had become used to.

Sansa, who seemed to have no embarrassment about watching the intimate scene, hovered nearby. Arya suspected she was watching to make sure Arya handled the baby appropriately, and frankly Arya didn't blame her. Despite the intense love that burned through her when she looked down at her son, she knew nothing of caring for children.

“What will you name him?” Sansa asked eagerly, her eyes trained on the baby.

Arya and Sandor exchanged a glance. They'd not discussed it, Arya fearing it would be bad luck to name a child before he'd been safely delivered.

“Bran should name him,” she said finally, looking over at Sandor for permission. Sandor, who didn't seem to care about much provided his wife and child were safe, shrugged. “He is Bran's heir.” It filled her with a certain melancholy that her brother would never have a child of his own, but though she could not see the future the way her brother could, she could hope for a future where Bran might find contentment with her own children instead.

“Oh yes,” Sansa said with delight, clapping her hands together and grinning wildly. “May he come in? He and Jon are outside.”

Arya sighed and smoothed down a strand of her wild hair. She didn't even want to imagine what she looked like and then reminded herself that she'd never cared about that before so why should she start now? “My tits are out,” she groaned in mock exasperation, but waved a hand at her sister anyway.

Sansa, too happy to be shocked by Arya's language, grinned and rushed to the door to tell Brienne to let their visitors in. Sandor used the little blanket Sansa had embroidered with a direwolf for the baby and draped it over Arya's chest to protect what modesty she had left. 

Bran was smiling more broadly than Arya had seen him since returning to Winterfell and didn't seem at all discomposed by her appearance. Jon was flushed but smiling as well and he leaned over to give Arya a kiss on the forehead, not caring if she was sweating or smelled bad.

Arya reached up to clasp the back of his neck and closed her eyes in contentment. She had not seen Jon in months and it seemed right that he should return in time to see the newest Stark born.

“Shouldn't you be pacifying queens or wrangling dragons, Jon?” she asked playfully as Jon drew away to settle on the end of the bed.

“I'm exactly where I should be,” he told her warmly and then Arya reached out to clasp Bran's hand.

“You knew I'd be fine, didn't you?” she asked, too tired and happy to be truly indignant.

Bran just smiled bashfully. “Too much knowledge of the future can be dangerous,” he said, that sadness creeping back into his voice a little. “Even I don't know the full consequences of revealing too much.”

“You cunt,” Arya said with more affection than exasperation. “You could have saved Sandor a few gray hairs.”

Sandor who'd been crowded near the headboard by the deluge of Starks cast her such a tender look that Arya forgot about all her pain and discomfort.

“Arya!” Sansa scolded, but sat on the bed beside Bran and gazed adoringly down at the suckling baby, her attention obviously more on the child than her sister. “We'd like you to name him,” she told Bran.

Bran grinned. “Eddard, after Father,” he said confidently, not having to give it any thought. Arya looked at him sharply, wondering if he'd known he'd be asked to name the child, then let it go. She was too tired and pleased to care much about anything at the moment, even if they were on the eve of a war.

The baby was beginning to fall asleep so Sansa took him from Arya and began to gently burp him on her shoulder, her movements gentle but confident. Arya remembered how Sansa had always latched herself onto mothers with newborn babies when they'd been girls and had always been first to help them care for the children, and was satisfied that her sister knew what she was doing much more than Arya did. 

She was beginning to truly struggle to keep her own eyes open and was grateful for Sansa's mothering.

“I'll watch him while you sleep,” Sansa said, not taking her eyes off of Eddard, and Arya wryly realized she was offering up her child to Sansa's tender care not for the moment, but for life.


	13. Chapter 13

Arya had only a single day with her new family before nearly every fighting man and woman marched out of Winterfell and to the North, to meet the White army before they could reach the castle. A small group of soldiers had been left behind to defend the castle, but everyone knew that if the White Walkers made it past the dragons there was little that could be done to save the castle or its contents.

Sandor seemed terribly aware of that when he came up to tell her and Eddard goodbye for the last time. He sat by her side, one hand resting gently on Eddard's sleeping back and the other holding her hand while he silently stared at her face for several long minutes. He didn't seem able to bring himself to speak. 

It scared her to think that even if the war was won, she might never see him again; that he might not live to see their child grow. It scared her even more that they might lose and _no one_ would see Eddard grow. 

She had been so much more fearless, once, when she had nothing left to care about it. Love had made her weak, she thought, but she wouldn't have changed a thing.

“Come back to us, Sandor,” she whispered. “We need you.”

Sandor nodded mutely, his lips pressed shut and then he stood jerkily. He leaned down, pressed a gentle kiss to Eddard's forehead and then a more passionate one to Arya's lips, and then he was gone without speaking, as though his emotions were too big to put words to. 

Arya bit her lips savagely to keep herself from crying and when Sansa and Brienne came to her after the warriors had left, her mouth was raw and bloody. 

** 

The week that followed was maddening. Arya recovered rapidly from her confinement and each day that her body felt better was all the more frustrating to her soul. She was a fighter and could not appreciate the necessity of being left behind, even though she knew she'd had no choice. It infuriated her that almost everyone she cared about was fighting to keep her safe and she could do nothing but pace her bedchamber and feed Eddard when Sansa brought him to her and then watch him sleep for hours on end. 

Brienne seemed to feel the same, for though she'd put up no fight when she'd been ordered to stay and protect Sansa and Arya, she often stared out the window to the North with an impotent look on her face that Arya recognized all too well.

Sansa preached patience and faith, but Arya, Brienne and Nymeria prowled around like caged tigers, first in Arya's bedchamber and later through the nearly empty halls of Winterfell when she was well enough. All they could do was wait for the ravens that were sent every evening, apprising the castle of the progress of the battle. Every night they waited until the Maester brought the note to tell them if the people they cared for still lived: Sandor, Jon, Bran, Podrick, Meera, Ghost, Tormund...

The ravens that were sent to the castle daily were promising, but it wasn't until a full week had passed that they knew the tide was turning firmly in their favor. The White Walker's numbers were vast, but they were no match for the dragonfire that turned their soldiers into kindling.

The day the raven sent word that their army was returning, triumphant, Arya and Sansa clung to each other and cried on one another's shoulders unabashedly. Arya had the odd thought that their mother would have been proud of them for getting along so well, and then realized her mother would simply be proud of them for having survived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're on the home stretch, guys. I'm capping this off with an epilogue and then calling Sandor and Arya's story a day. I hope it didn't get too sappy. I mean... yeah, it did, but hopefully it works. I started out making them all badass but then when you add a baby into the mix it's kinda hard to stay badass, you know?
> 
> I've decided to write a companion piece set in this same world that focuses on Sansa/Podrick/Brienne. I had originally intended them to be together in this fic but it just felt like it was a relationship that required too much development to happen as a background ship in that story, so I decided to shelve it. I still had a fair amount of their story written, however, and while I really was having a hard time writing it as an insert into Death is Our God, I think it will work as a sequel (in fact, I went ahead and posted the first chapter of the sequel while I was giving myself some breathing space before the epilogue)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UNAPOLOGETIC HAPPINESS AHEAD. WE JUST NEED SOME HAPPINESS, OKAY?

_six years later_

“Get back here, you wretch!” Arya shouted as the squirming child wriggled out of her grasp, stomped on her foot and dashed out the door, laughing and naked as the day she'd birthed him, leaving Arya holding the clothes she'd been trying to wrestle him into. At least her second son, Jojen, hadn't managed to tear the lovely tunic Sansa had made for him to wear in honor of Jon's wedding. Yet. 

Solemn little Eddard looked at her and sighed at his brother's misbehavior. He acted so much like Jon that Arya had to bite back a laugh, despite her frazzled nerves. “I'll get him, Mummy,” he said seriously and trotted after his little brother. 

Baby Catelyn giggled in the crib behind Arya and clamped her hand in a wave to Eddard's retreating back. “Bye bye, Dar!” she cried happily, for at not yet two years old she still had a difficult time saying her brother's name. Nymeria's tail thumped at the sound of the baby's voice and she lifted her grey snout to look at Catelyn from where she'd been sleeping by the cradle, as watchful of Arya's children as Arya was herself.

“You're turn, my love,” Arya told Catelyn, caressing Nymeria's head before picking up the dress with the embroidered daises around the collar and going to her daughter, wishing that the creator of the dress was there to help her. Or her husband, for that matter.

As though summoned by her thoughts, Arya heard Sandor's deep voice as he spoke to his children before he walked through the door of their room. Sandor held the naked, hysterically giggling four year old Jojen by both ankles and was swinging him from side to side as he walked. Even Eddard was grinning brightly at Jojen's whoops of laughter and when Sandor made a great show of tossing the child onto their bed Eddard threw his arms around his father, wanting to be thrown as well. 

Sandor obliged him, even though at only six years old Eddard was nearly as tall as his mother and was thick and sturdy, promising to be as large as his father one day. Sandor tossed him with ease, as strong and hearty at forty as he'd been at twenty, and the two little boys bounced on the bed, shrieking with laughter. 

“Me! Papa, me!” Catelyn screamed from her crib, standing up and making grabbing motions to her father. Arya felt that on principal she should object to Sandor riling the children when they were supposed to be getting ready for a solemn occasion, but she'd never been able to resist making her children happy, as though she were making up for the unhappiness of her own childhood through them. She grinned as she watched Sandor swing the baby into the air to her squeals of joy before gently tossing her on the bed to join her brothers, thinking how different he was with his third child than he'd been with his first when he'd thought he would break Eddard every time he touched him.

And then Sandor turned on her, a devilish look in his eyes.

“Oh no,” Arya said sternly, backing away. “I've already got my best dress on.” It was her only dress, come to that, and if she ruined it she'd be forced to be fitted for another one- a terrible fate.

Sandor shot a conspiratorial look at the children. “Should I throw Mummy?” he asked and no one was surprised when the children shouted their agreement and moved to the headboard to make room for her, the boys pulling a bouncing and clapping Catelyn between them. 

“Sandor!” Arya shouted, but it was too late. He caught her around the middle and swept her up, his strong arms holding her weight as though she were light as air. Grinning down at her, he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead and then spun her around and tossed her on to the bed where she bounced and tried to hold back her own laughter. She shot a malevolent look at her husband to show him she disapproved, but he only joined in the melee, flopping back on the bed along with them and letting the children climb onto him like he was a horse.

Grinning evilly, she rolled over and helped the children tickle their father until he roared.

They might never have gotten ready in time for the wedding if Sansa had not come to their room looking for them.

“Arya, what are you doing?” she asked, her eyes on the children still in their play clothes and Jojen in nothing at all. She was wearing a dress of such opulence that Arya could only imagine the many weeks of work that had gone into it, but her loveliness was marred by a frown.

“Eddard, my love, will you retrieve Jojen's tunic?” she asked without waiting for an answer from her sister. Eddard popped off the bed, a half guilty look on his face. 

“Yes, Aunt Sansa,” he said and ran to get Jojen's cast aside finery.

Jojen looked sulky but ducked his head when Sansa transferred a stern look on him. When Eddard brought her the clothing she pointed silently at the floor in front of her and Jojen, with a sigh, climbed out of the bed and dragged his feet towards her.

“I spent many hours making you these clothes so that you would have something lovely to wear to Jon's wedding and it hurts my feelings that you will not put them on,” Sansa said and Jojen's little shoulders bowed and his head dipped lower. 

“I'm sorry, Aunt Sansa,” he said in a small voice and Sansa allowed her face to relax into a smile. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his curly brown hair and then to his forehead when he looked hopefully up at her. 

“I forgive you, darling,” she said and when she began to dress him he remained meek as a lamb. 

Sansa commanded an obedience from Arya's children that Arya could only watch with wonder and bewilderment. Certainly they never behaved for _her_ so well! 

Arya climb out of the bed as well and handed Catelyn's dress to Sandor with the same sort of stern look Sansa had given Jojen, and then pulled Eddard's dress clothes from the chair they'd been carelessly tossed on and went to her eldest child. 

Between the three of them they had the children dressed with only a minimal amount of crying. After Sansa had looked each child over critically, smoothing down stray cowlicks and brushing imaginary dust from shoulders, she nodded in satisfaction.

“I'll take them down early,” she told Arya, pulling Catelyn onto one hip and grasping Jojen's hand firmly in her freed hand. She nodded wordlessly at Eddard and he grasped Jojen's other hand to keep the rambunctious little boy under control. “Better to let them get used to the novelty before the ceremony,” she said, and led the three well behaved children from the room, Nymeria trailing behind, her head up and alert, vigilant for danger.

“Clearly I married the wrong sister,” Sandor said slyly when the door shut behind them.

Arya rolled her eyes at him, no longer taking such taunting seriously. To think that she'd once been jealous of the brief fascination Sandor had had for Sansa made her laugh at her younger self's insecurity. “Don't let Brienne hear you say that,” she said with a smirk. “She might bite your other ear off.”

Sandor grimaced, even though Arya had been teasing both of them about it for years. “Help me with my armor, wench,” he said instead and Arya went to him, her fingers flying over the buckles and latches, a job she'd done a thousand times before. When she was done she had him bend over slightly so she could arrange his too long hair and then kiss him on the mouth hard, to leave her mark. 

Sandor looked good in his finest armor, gleaming from a recent polishing. His face was as scarred and disfigured as ever, but Arya thought he wore it better now than he ever had. There was a lightness to his expression that smoothed over the years of hatred and bitterness he'd lived before coming to Winterfell. That man was still there, deep inside him, but Arya saw it less and less as they all settled into peace and prosperity. 

She didn't call him handsome, for she knew he wouldn't believe her, but she let her appreciation for him show in her dark gaze. When he was smirking back at her smugly, she linked her arm with his and looked up at him with an answering smile.

“Do you remember when we married?” she asked, for though they remained married only in their hearts and not the law, she'd have drawn her sword on anyone who suggested Sandor was not hers in every way one human could belong to another.

He smiled down at her and stroked his fingers over the hand she draped on his arm, nothing ironic in the affection he showed her so easily now. “Of course I do.”

“Do you still think I'm an insane cunt?” she asked and grinned when Sandor let out a bark of laughter.

“The maddest cunt I know,” he agreed and led her out the door to take her to the godswood.

**

Jon had acquired many friends in his short life, for he was the sort of man that people of decency loved and not so decent people respected. Among the visitors to Winterfell were people Arya and Sandor called friends as well and were happy to see again. The wedding had the feeling of a reunion, for they saw many of the people they had not seen since the ending of the war. It was bittersweet, to remember all the men and women who'd died, but on the whole Arya found it more sweet than bitter. 

They greeted Tormund, who'd traveled up from beyond the wall for the occasion of Jon's wedding and seemed set to stay for a while yet and enjoy the hospitality of Winterfell. They saw Samwell Tarly and his wife and children, Davos Seaworth and Edd Tollett, all of whom they'd grown fond of over the years. 

Eventually Arya and Sandor made their way back to where their children and Sansa stood with Brienne and Podrick. Both Brienne and Podrick wore clothing as beautifully made as Sansa's, a show of favor that Sansa usually avoided so as not to attract attention to her relationship with the two, should anyone grow suspicious. It was hard to begrudge her the indulgence, though, for they made a very fine group in the bright summer light.

Sandor relieved Sansa of the mischievous Jojen, pulling him up onto his shoulders so that he could see through the crowd to the heart tree, where the wedding party was beginning to assemble. Arya put an arm around Eddard and leaned over to give Catelyn a kiss from where she slept in Sansa's arms.

Jon stood at the heart tree, his bright smile stretching the scar on his face and transforming his normally serious expression. He looked as though nothing were amiss, and Arya was glad of that, for despite everything that Jon had done for the North- for all of Westeros, come to that- there were still some who whispered spitefully of how far Jon had risen above his station, marrying the head of the Mormont family. 

Arya wanted to snarl at them all and tell them that he could have been their king, but she'd held her tongue. It had been a condition of Daenerys's assistance in the great war against the White Walkers that Jon should relinquish any claim he had to the throne, and he'd gladly sacrificed one more part of himself for the good of others, just as he always had. His true parentage remained a secret to all but a select few, and though it galled her to see anyone sneer at Jon, she kept her council.

Arya's attention was drawn away from Jon by the murmuring of voices and the sounds of hundreds turning to the rear of the assembly. Lyanna Mormont, dressed in a simple white dress, walked steadily through the crowd, her eyes on Jon.

Lyanna, despite her namesake, had not grown to be the legendary beauty Jon's mother had been, but she was breathtaking on her wedding day, her smile so joyful on her normally solemn face that Arya quite forgot that she'd ever thought the girl plain. Arya suspected that Lyanna had been in love with Jon for many years, but Arya knew it had only been in the past two that Jon had begun to consider Lyanna as anything more than a child. Lyanna would have married him at fifteen but Jon had insisted they wait until she'd reached the more traditional age of seventeen. 

Although they had all come to Winterfell to be married in the heart of the North, within a week Arya would say farewell to Jon for the longest period of time since he'd made the trip to King's Landing six years prior. It was a painful thought, for ever since she'd finally returned home she'd been little separated from her remaining siblings. For any of them to leave Winterfell felt too much like when they'd all left the safety of their home so long ago and not everyone had returned. 

Sandor noticed her long face and nudged her side. “You'll see him in two months,” he reminded her, correctly guessing the source of her distress.

Arya rubbed a hand against her eyelids and nodded, shaking away her gloom. The trip from Winterfell to Bear Island was not so formidable and they'd already been invited to visit once Lyanna and Jon had had a chance to settle in together. 

Arya watched Bran give his blessing to the couple before his wife, Meera, rolled him back off to the side. Jon and Lyanna clasped hands and smiled at each other and Arya thought that no, Jon truly didn't seem to mind that he was turning his back on the destiny he'd been born into and choosing his own instead. 

Jon had told her once that when he'd died, there had been nothing afterwards, and that the only way he could continue to live was to live with everything he had and to die with no regrets. 

Arya stroked Eddard's hair and thought of her family, both the living and the gone forever. She thought of the people she'd taken from the world, and the people she'd brought into it. The balance was still tipped in favor of the dead, but she wasn't yet ready to meet the Many Faced God. She had time. 

Arya smiled and touched her hand to her still flat belly, where only she knew the next Stark rested within. 

No regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! Well, for Arya and Sandor, anyway. Please let me know if you enjoyed this! I enjoy writing... but let's face it, comments are way more of an instant gratification.


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